Walknotes

Monday

There’s a stegosaurus in the undergrowth, pocket sized. It’s such a bright green that everything around it looks brown. I can’t bring myself to put it in the bag with the bottles and the cups, so I lift it gently with the picker and place it by the side of the path, in full view of anyone passing. I hope someone claims him.

When I walk home the sun is blazing, balanced on the hill ahead. Everyone in the distance is a Giacometti sculpture in silhouette. Long legs, long knobbly bodies.

Tuesday

Anyone walking along this street, at this time, with a backpack on is heading to the station. I start at the back of this particular grid and watch people cross the road, one by one, taking the racing line. I cross too (as always), then manoeuvre, overtaking everyone on the outside.

Congratulations. I win. I’ll also be the first person to overheat on the train.

New typography in the city: ‘8 Bishopsgate’. From where I am, squinting up from London Bridge, it looks like Helvetica, but I won’t bet on it. So high up on the side of a building-in-progress, I wonder who it’s for? Definitely not the people delivering the post.

A text message, later. “Can you see the sunset?” Can I?! I’ve almost got the whole floor to myself. I look at the sunset from every window. Walk 360 degrees, right around the office. I’m not sure what I enjoyed more, the sunset or the act of looking at it.

Wednesday

In the graveyard, a small clump of snowdrops are out. And some primroses.

In the field, I see a shadow pass quickly across the sun – a horse on the horizon. In freeze-frame, it’d be the perfect cover for a cheap novel. But real life doesn’t freeze frame. I hear myself say “oh no” as the horse belts hell-for-leather across the field, and I offer up a quick prayer. Mother Nature obliges and the horse thunders past. Too close, but ignoring me completely. If you love horses, it would’ve been magical. I do not love horses.

At work, I’m constantly impressed by the fearlessness of the people I work with. I assume this is the difference between the ‘confidence of youth’ and the crippling self-doubt of middle age.

In the evening, a video call with friends from my old team in Greece. I really miss them. And they never fail to make me laugh.

Thursday

While I wait for the tea to brew I divide tea bags from the couples they come in to single bags and put them in the jar. I’ve never bothered before. We’re at that stage of the pandemic.

Get an email saying ‘What to Read After A Short Stay in Hell’.

Friday

#ThingsThatHaveHappened: new sign, “CAUTION POTHOLES”.

There’s been potholes here for at least 4 years – and I’m pretty sure most people know it. I guess someone crunched the front of their car. To be fair, the biggest is less of a pothole and more a gaping chasm. Sorry about your car.

It’s about to rain and the wind is really strong, tearing through the trees and sounding like the sea. I want to be out in wide open space and deep in the woods at the same time. The week-old calf shelters by the fence, watching the grown ups eat at the trough. More balls of cow hair collected on the fence.

I stare awkwardly at the rainbow above the earthworks and, as is tradition, feel the need to confess to the next person I see. “There’s a rainbow… behind you…”. Does explaining what I’m looking at make me seem more normal? “Oh? Right! Ok”.

It chucks it down on the way back and I don’t mind. When I get home I pluck a single tea bag from the jar for my tea. Well done, Thursday me.

At work we have a call that starts in daylight and finishes in darkness. Seven people on the call, two of us illuminated by nothing but the light of our screens.

Saturday

Writing has been on my mind a lot recently. On Monday, someone misunderstood what I was saying (we were in a room full of saxophones, brass and woodwind tuning up, so it wasn’t surprising). She said “Oh you must write! Everyone has a story in them!” Because it was noisy I didn’t point out that the saying actually goes something like: “Everyone has a story in them and for most people that’s where it should stay”.

I’m choosing not to write about work much. That is not because I don’t care about work. To be honest, aside from the weather and what time the sun comes up, it’s all I’m thinking about. But this isn’t the time or place to talk about it.

The other plus about writing on Tumblr is that there’s no comments and no stats. Maybe that’s why I’ve got going but never bothered getting good. I don’t really write for other people, because I just can’t see them.

These are more walking notes than ‘weeknotes’. So welcome to walknotes. Or walking weeknotes. Or weakling walknotes: never knowingly far from home.