Last Saturday afternoon we walked to the shops. We were the other side of the road, but I pointed anyway and said “See that tiny green thing? What d’you think it is?” He looked and said “The bright green thing? Err…”. It was the stegosaurus, of course. We picked it up on the way home. It’s currently standing on top of the radio, guarding the dials.
Monday 7 February
“Up the workers!” I look up and it’s T, fist in the air, yelling from the top of the grassy bank. I’m at the bottom, litter-picker in hand. “Morning! You alright?”. “Splendid!”. I pick up a plastic bottle, stuff it in the bag and shout “Seems unlikely. You know it’s a Monday, right?” He laughs and walks off to catch his friends.
T is the first friend I made walking through the pandemic. He’s retired and walks most mornings, sometimes with 2 friends, sometimes alone. He always talks to me, his friends never do. If you’ve pictured him, I can almost guarantee that’s not what he looks like.
I shower when I get home and wash my hair. The bathroom is hot, humid and full of sunshine. Outside they’re doing building work, but it sounds like they’re mowing grass. For a split second it’s summer. I join the first meeting of the day with a cup of tea and damp hair.
Tuesday 8 February
Yesterday it was 2°c and I wore a winter coat. Today was 11°c and I wore a hoodie. Yesterday I mistakenly thought I’d seen the man whose dog is a bastard, so I said hello to the silhouette of the wrong man. But not today.
I haven’t seen him for a while, and he’s been on my mind. Suddenly, here he is. His dog isn’t a bastard, he’s just small, old, grumpy and apparently he bites. I say apparently because I’ve never tried to stroke him, for obvious reasons.
This man loves his dog. He keeps a pocketful of treats and slips them to the dog while we chat. He asks how I am and we talk about work, mine and his. As we make our separate ways he turns, “Hey! How’s your back? You’re walking better!” My heart. The kindness of people you meet in the park.
There are snowdrops in the wood. They’ve come up since Friday.
Wednesday 9 February
Wake up and wonder how people become ‘morning people’.
After the horse incident last Wednesday, I saw cans, bottles and Haribo packets in the freshly cut hedgerows. They must’ve been gathering there for months. I decide to fix that today.
As I walk across the park the sun hits the tallest buildings in London. You can’t usually see them from here, but today they’re shining gold on the horizon, above the trees and below the clouds. I wonder if HR have arranged this unsubtle spectacle to get us back to the office.
As I walk up the road I hear a car, and a voice: “Arrrrr, me matey!” It’s my neighbour. She’s driving a Mini, dressed as a pirate.
I get to the first field and clear it as I walk. To finish the second field I just need to pass the group of horses gathered under the tree and climb over the stile. Cool, cool.
I walk towards the stile and a horse walks towards me. Out loud I say “Don’t come near me don’t come near me”. It seems that roughly translates to “Hey! Wanna hang out?” in horse.
The horse reaches me and stops. Our eyes meet. I pause for the briefest moment and then say “Sorry! I’ve got to go!” Feels like you can’t just leave a situation like that without making an apology? Best to be polite. I concentrate on walking and refuse to make eye contact with the other horses. I think we all know where we stand.
I get to the wood and there’s more rubbish. I pick up endless cans. I’m almost done when I notice the new smell I’ve been gifted by Covid. I have no idea where it’s coming from, or what it is. Based on past experience it’s either meat or veg – cooked or uncooked, or it’s food waste. I’m in a wood, which one is it? It’s so strong. Is it me? It’s oddly stressful.
I start walking back and can see the horses the other side of the fence, plotting. I sigh and take the long route home.
Later: “What did you think was going to happen? They’re horses, not pterodactyls!”
He’s wrong, of course.
Thursday 10 February
It’s daylight when we start the team meeting and it feels like Friday.
Still not Friday.
Friday 11 February
Pull on a jumper and look at the sky. Both are unremarkable. I need to take the car to the garage for an MOT and it’s frosted on the outside and full of condensation on the inside. Chip away at the ice, open the windows. When I look again, the sky is a vibrant orange, waiting patiently to be seen.
Later, I finally write the paragraph that’s been worrying me all week. It’s 73 words, 430 characters precisely.
Saturday 12 February
Odd week. It felt like a month – actually reading this back, Monday feels like a year ago. Or maybe 7 February 2021 was much the same? Never mind.
The crocus came out in the garden this week. I can’t remember the type, but they’re bright yellow and hefty – they could probably take the park crocuses in a fight. There’s tiny buds on the tiny primroses too. And the beginnings of bluebells, everywhere. The miniature iris are coming up. I’ve never wanted bulbs to flower as much as those. Please flower.
I’m enjoying writing these but it’s odd. They’re a tiny moment of calm in what feels like a metaphorical never ending shitstorm all around us. Just as long as you know I know. I’m not completely oblivious. But I guess everyone needs a break sometimes.
Walknotes 