The wind in my face is pleasantly warm and satisfying, masking as it does the intense heat of the midday sun. My arms don’t feel the breeze in the same way though as I steer the quadbike along a main road approaching the bustling town of Hersonissos on the Greek island of Crete. I glance down to see if they’re aglow with sunburn. ‘They’ll be ok for another few minutes’
I’m looking for a place called St Georges Bay, which according to my rather battered and obscure looking map, shouldn’t be too far from here. I saw it yesterday on the last stage of a boat cruise I took to a number of the island's beaches. I was drawn by the photo of a large cave that you were supposedly able to swim into. The guy selling the cruise (typically) said the snorkelling was amazing and amongst the best on the island. Sadly, the reality was that the captain decided to anchor the boat a couple of hundred meters or so from the cave and announced just 10 minutes swim time before having to climb back on-board for the short trip back to Hersonissos – it wasn't going to happen. I’ve always enjoyed exploring caves and rugged shorelines. My childhood memories are full of trips to Devon and Cornwall where we used to scramble across the rocks. The idea of snorkelling into that cave however was something else. I had to find my way back to it.
The street signs are all written in Greek as I pass through Hersonissos and I haven’t seen anything even remotely indicating the place I’m trying to find. I spot an excursion centre coming up on the right - if anyone can give me directions to where I'm going then it should be someone in there. I park up and pop inside, taking off my crash helmet and frisking my hair as I walk. I ask a lady behind the desk for directions to St Georges Bay. She smiles “The nudist beach?” “Huh? No, I’m trying to get to this cave in St Georges Bay” I say, pulling the crumpled leaflet from my rucksack to show her. “Yes, that’s the place but there’s also a nudist beach there” she says. Either she's giving me a knowing look or I'm just feeling paranoid – possibly both. She gives me the directions I need and I head back to the bike, pondering the information as I climb astride and put the key in the ignition. ’A nudist beach.’
I follow her directions, steering the quad bike down a dusty road, although my thoughts are somewhat preoccupied. ‘I haven’t been to a nudist beach before'. I muse. ‘I’m on my own here too’. The quad bumps and unsettles itself on a couple of potholes as I lift off the seat slightly to balance it. ‘No one here knows me.’ The road runs parallel with a cliff edge and I look out at the immense blueness of the ocean. ‘No one at home would ever find out.’ And then it dawns on me that this wouldn't be the first time that I've been naked on a beach.
I recall a night in Thailand a few years ago. An American girl was eating alone at the table across from mine. She was petite with olive skin and thick dark brown hair that fell into a bob just above her shoulders. With her brown eyes she looked a little like G which might be one of the reasons I started talking to her. ‘What was her name?’ She was fun and vivacious. She joined me at my table and for the next couple of hours we chatted, exchanging travel stories and flirted as we shared a small a bottle of Jack Daniels. We took a walk along the beach road taking in the balmy evening and the warm breeze. I linked my little finger with hers. She closed her hand around mine. We wandered down to the deserted beach and kissed on the sand. "Let's skinny dip she said with the excitement of a brilliant new idea. She kicked off her Birkenstocks and walked to the waters edge, "It's so still" she mused before lifting her top over her head. She turned to look back at me. “Come on” she said, unbuttoning and stepping out of her shorts and knickers. I undressed with my eyes fixed on her as she walked in to the water. She splashed water on herself. "Come on, it's beautiful" she said before disappearing beneath the water. I waded in up to my waist wondering where she’d got to as she splashed up in front of me and spat water in my face, giggling hysterically. Her body glistened as she ran her fingers through her wet hair and we kissed. We waded along the shoreline, pointing out the luminous effect of the fish before diving into the cool water. I hadn't been naked in the sea before. It felt free and liberating and a million miles from home. We lay down on the flat sand near some trees and let the warm night air dry us.
'Happy times' I reflect as I'm suddenly snapped out of my recollection by the sound of a car horn and realise that I’m riding on the wrong side of the road. “Sorry” I say. He says something back in Greek. I haven’t a clue what, but it doesn’t sound particularly friendly. I pull over at what looks like an opening with a few cars parked. To the right is a narrow path that seems to lead down. I look over the edge. Below is a series of flat rocks from where it looks like people can dive into the sea. A young woman walks out from under the cliff overhang. She’s naked as she ties her hair in a ponytail and dips a foot into the water. She looks back to say something to someone. ‘Is she speaking Russian?’ I wonder. ‘At least I’ve found the beach’ assuming a collection of flat rocks qualifies as a beach that is. ‘Go on, yes man, do it’ I walk down the narrow track that leads to the nudist beach, lifting off my t shirt as I go and ponder on whether there’s any social etiquette with nudist beaches.
I’m half way down the path when I look across to see the beach properly in all its saggy overweight male dominated glory. The young woman it seems was the exception to the rule as groups of large naked middle aged Russian (from the sound of it) men seem to dominate the area eating, smoking and drinking beer and scratching their balls. People have seen me walking down the path though and so I can’t just turn around and head back. And so I do what any normal person would do. I pull a map out of my rucksack and act like a tourist who has lost their way before turning the map around and discovering the route back up the path.
I climb back onto the quadbike and place the key in the ignition. I fasten my crash helmet and ponder what to do next. Bugger the cave, I’m hot and tired of riding around in the midday sun. I want to find a nice beach with soft yellow sand and I want to swim and cool off. As luck might have it, I think I passed the perfect place just a few minutes down the road. I turn the bike around and bid the nudist beach goodbye.
I ride off, feeling contented for at least having made the effort. My contentment however is to be reasonably short lived. I don’t know it yet but in 30 minutes from now the nudist beach will be the farthest thing from my mind...
Friday, 29 August 2014
Thursday, 12 June 2014
Nostalgia
The party was last night – a house warming for friends in North London where I crashed with a tooth brush and a spare pair of pants (forward planning). I walk over to the front lounge window and look at the house across the street – an address where my brother used to live. ‘When was it?’ I count back as I do the maths and am momentarily shocked to discover it was twenty five years ago. My hostess appears from the kitchen and hands me a cup of coffee. I point out the house and tell her the history of when I used to visit the area. “You should spend some time around here if you have time and see how much has changed”. I check the time. I’ve no need to be back in London until later. “Yeah might do” I muse. She and her boyfriend make breakfast for myself and the few waifs and strays who have stayed over and half an hour later I say my goodbyes. We agree to meet up for drinks later in the week.
I climb into the car and start off in the direction of Enfield Town. The sun is shining and it’s heat magnifies through the windscreen as I wind down the driver’s window before taking a turning into the main road. Memory escapes me of the last time I drove this way as I notice some of the shops I used to walk past or pop into on the way home from school. The hairdressers flies past the window on the left – the colour and wording of the shop sign unchanged from when I was a boy. Coming up on the right is the building that houses the pet shop that’s been there since as long as I can remember. We used to pop in there after school to look at the latest hamsters and guinea pigs and wonder about the parrot at the back – would we ever hear it talk? I gasp with a sudden sadness though as I pass it with the realisation that it’s now an Indian restaurant. There’s no one behind me and so I brake and take a look out of the driver’s window at the front of the building. The smell of pet food and the sound of squawking birds is still so clear in my mind. ‘Wow’ I muse. My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a car horn behind me and an irate little old man in a red Honda. I push on and drive in the town centre with a mix of familiarity and curiosity. Some places are the same and others have changed, including the road layout. I decide to park up and take a wander.
I am a sucker for nostalgia and I pull up in a car park that I remember my mum using before dragging us around the shops. I walk the route from the car park into town – a route that seemed to take forever to walk when I was little but which in reality takes only several minutes. I smile inwardly at this realisation as I walk past the Barclays Bank where I opened my first bank account. It still has the same sign on the wall which proudly tells people using the ATM that this was where the world’s very first ATM was installed. I walk from one end of town to the other scanning the filing cabinet of my mind for childhood adventures and recollections. And then I see him.
He’s tall, slim and dark haired and is walking towards me from about 50 meters away. ‘Is that Frank?’ The gap between us closes rapidly as I try and work out if it’s actually him. We used to go to the same school and we were even in the same class at one point. We didn’t really hang out though as we had different friends. We’d acknowledge one another with a nod and a raise of eyebrows if we passed in the school yard or corridor. ‘Is it him though?’, I wonder as we get closer. ‘It could be him’ (40 meters) , I look closer ‘I’m sure it’s him’ (30 meters)) ‘Bloody hell it’s him!’ (25 meters). ‘Right, now what? Do I say something?' (20 meters) 'Do I pretend I haven’t seen him?’ (15 meters). ‘I could just look at my shoes’ (5 metres). He is a couple of meters away as I lift my head and I look at him and he looks at me and we raise our eyebrows and we nod and we keep on walking.
I’m buoyed and reflective as I walk back to my car. It’s been a brief but fun and nostalgic visit. Sad though the loss of old haunts like the pet shop is however, time can’t stand still and change is something that ought to be embraced like a new friend. In twenty years’ time there’ll doubtless be someone for whom the Indian restaurant was a part of their childhood, who’ll mull over how sad it is that’s it’s turned into a bookies or estate agents. Happily though whilst buildings and places change, it seems that people don’t and hopefully they’ll have the silent acknowledgment of someone they used to know to remind them of that.
I climb into the car and start off in the direction of Enfield Town. The sun is shining and it’s heat magnifies through the windscreen as I wind down the driver’s window before taking a turning into the main road. Memory escapes me of the last time I drove this way as I notice some of the shops I used to walk past or pop into on the way home from school. The hairdressers flies past the window on the left – the colour and wording of the shop sign unchanged from when I was a boy. Coming up on the right is the building that houses the pet shop that’s been there since as long as I can remember. We used to pop in there after school to look at the latest hamsters and guinea pigs and wonder about the parrot at the back – would we ever hear it talk? I gasp with a sudden sadness though as I pass it with the realisation that it’s now an Indian restaurant. There’s no one behind me and so I brake and take a look out of the driver’s window at the front of the building. The smell of pet food and the sound of squawking birds is still so clear in my mind. ‘Wow’ I muse. My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a car horn behind me and an irate little old man in a red Honda. I push on and drive in the town centre with a mix of familiarity and curiosity. Some places are the same and others have changed, including the road layout. I decide to park up and take a wander.
I am a sucker for nostalgia and I pull up in a car park that I remember my mum using before dragging us around the shops. I walk the route from the car park into town – a route that seemed to take forever to walk when I was little but which in reality takes only several minutes. I smile inwardly at this realisation as I walk past the Barclays Bank where I opened my first bank account. It still has the same sign on the wall which proudly tells people using the ATM that this was where the world’s very first ATM was installed. I walk from one end of town to the other scanning the filing cabinet of my mind for childhood adventures and recollections. And then I see him.
He’s tall, slim and dark haired and is walking towards me from about 50 meters away. ‘Is that Frank?’ The gap between us closes rapidly as I try and work out if it’s actually him. We used to go to the same school and we were even in the same class at one point. We didn’t really hang out though as we had different friends. We’d acknowledge one another with a nod and a raise of eyebrows if we passed in the school yard or corridor. ‘Is it him though?’, I wonder as we get closer. ‘It could be him’ (40 meters) , I look closer ‘I’m sure it’s him’ (30 meters)) ‘Bloody hell it’s him!’ (25 meters). ‘Right, now what? Do I say something?' (20 meters) 'Do I pretend I haven’t seen him?’ (15 meters). ‘I could just look at my shoes’ (5 metres). He is a couple of meters away as I lift my head and I look at him and he looks at me and we raise our eyebrows and we nod and we keep on walking.
I’m buoyed and reflective as I walk back to my car. It’s been a brief but fun and nostalgic visit. Sad though the loss of old haunts like the pet shop is however, time can’t stand still and change is something that ought to be embraced like a new friend. In twenty years’ time there’ll doubtless be someone for whom the Indian restaurant was a part of their childhood, who’ll mull over how sad it is that’s it’s turned into a bookies or estate agents. Happily though whilst buildings and places change, it seems that people don’t and hopefully they’ll have the silent acknowledgment of someone they used to know to remind them of that.
Thursday, 22 August 2013
An Early Start
I am awake at an untimely hour to catch a train to the Midlands for a finance meeting. The early start is compounded by the first starlings of the morning, seemingly determined to ensure that I am awake a good hour before the 5am alarm. I make a mental note to wear ear plugs the next time I go to sleep with the bedroom window open.
I get up, stretch, brush my teeth, shower and shave – such is the morning routine. I dress, scramble some eggs and put the kettle on to make coffee. I look out of the window as it starts to boil. The day is clear and I remind myself to try to wake at this hour more frequently during the summer months – “maybe go for a run.”
Leaving my flat in plenty of time – a rarity in itself, I walk the short journey to the tube station and in what seems like a brief skim through a Metro later, I arrive at Kings Cross and walk through to St Pancras International and collect my tickets from the pre booking machine.
After buying a coffee and a bacon roll, I note the platform on the departures board and make my way in that direction. Walking along the concourse with hands full and laptop bag hanging over my shoulder I check my watch and see that I have 10 minutes to spare. I start to think about the day ahead - of meetings and spreadsheets and finance managers demanding this and that.
I head towards the escalator that leads to the upper platforms. However, the closer I get, the more my thoughts are interrupted by the sound of someone playing a piece of classical music on a piano. It’s an upright, positioned behind one of the columns and is one of an assorted number of pianos that have found themselves dotted around mainline train stations throughout Central London. The aim, being to encourage members of the public to play them at will. I’ve seen a few being played in the past, although usually by a teenager or two, giving a rendition of Chop Sticks. This is something else though.
I’ve heard this piece of music before – it’s by Chopin I think, and I’m wondering who the pianist is. I walk past the column and see a man who looks to be in his mid to late thirties. He has a short beard and long dark hair, which is tied back. He looks like he might be Italian or Spanish. My attention is drawn to his hands, which are dirty, likewise his nails, which are full of grime. I look at his face, side on, and I see that this is also dirty. I wonder if he might be homeless, which only makes me more curious about his piano playing
It sounds like he’s note perfect and I notice that he seems to be looking straight ahead. On closer inspection though, I see that his eyes are in fact closed. The music is gentle and beguiling in a way that cuts through the colourless routine of the morning rush hour. Not that anyone else is watching of course. Commuters go about their business and filter around me as they walk hurriedly to their trains. I sip my coffee and watch and listen. Previous thoughts of the days finance meetings now seem insignificant and bland.
An announcement over the tannoy reminds me of my impending train departure. With a heavy heart, I look at my watch and realise that I have 5 minutes to catch it if I’m not going to be late. I move closer to the piano as the piece he is playing nears its end. He softly plays the last notes and draws the piece to a close.“That was beautiful” I say. He opens his eyes, nods and smiles, “Thank you”.
A little while later and I am sitting on the train. I look out at the countryside flying past the window and reflect wistfully as the sound of the piano playing over and over in my mind. I wonder about the guy who played so beautifully - whether he’s actually homeless, where he learned to play like he did and what’s going through his mind as he closes his eyes and effortlessly, glides his fingers across the eightly eight keys on front of him.
I want to talk to someone about it – to describe what I’ve seen and the sense of wonderment I’ve felt at being briefly transported from a routine of commuter drudgery. But of course there’s no one. And so I do something that I haven’t done for far too long. I take out my laptop and I begin to type.
I get up, stretch, brush my teeth, shower and shave – such is the morning routine. I dress, scramble some eggs and put the kettle on to make coffee. I look out of the window as it starts to boil. The day is clear and I remind myself to try to wake at this hour more frequently during the summer months – “maybe go for a run.”
Leaving my flat in plenty of time – a rarity in itself, I walk the short journey to the tube station and in what seems like a brief skim through a Metro later, I arrive at Kings Cross and walk through to St Pancras International and collect my tickets from the pre booking machine.
After buying a coffee and a bacon roll, I note the platform on the departures board and make my way in that direction. Walking along the concourse with hands full and laptop bag hanging over my shoulder I check my watch and see that I have 10 minutes to spare. I start to think about the day ahead - of meetings and spreadsheets and finance managers demanding this and that.
I head towards the escalator that leads to the upper platforms. However, the closer I get, the more my thoughts are interrupted by the sound of someone playing a piece of classical music on a piano. It’s an upright, positioned behind one of the columns and is one of an assorted number of pianos that have found themselves dotted around mainline train stations throughout Central London. The aim, being to encourage members of the public to play them at will. I’ve seen a few being played in the past, although usually by a teenager or two, giving a rendition of Chop Sticks. This is something else though.
I’ve heard this piece of music before – it’s by Chopin I think, and I’m wondering who the pianist is. I walk past the column and see a man who looks to be in his mid to late thirties. He has a short beard and long dark hair, which is tied back. He looks like he might be Italian or Spanish. My attention is drawn to his hands, which are dirty, likewise his nails, which are full of grime. I look at his face, side on, and I see that this is also dirty. I wonder if he might be homeless, which only makes me more curious about his piano playing
It sounds like he’s note perfect and I notice that he seems to be looking straight ahead. On closer inspection though, I see that his eyes are in fact closed. The music is gentle and beguiling in a way that cuts through the colourless routine of the morning rush hour. Not that anyone else is watching of course. Commuters go about their business and filter around me as they walk hurriedly to their trains. I sip my coffee and watch and listen. Previous thoughts of the days finance meetings now seem insignificant and bland.
An announcement over the tannoy reminds me of my impending train departure. With a heavy heart, I look at my watch and realise that I have 5 minutes to catch it if I’m not going to be late. I move closer to the piano as the piece he is playing nears its end. He softly plays the last notes and draws the piece to a close.“That was beautiful” I say. He opens his eyes, nods and smiles, “Thank you”.
A little while later and I am sitting on the train. I look out at the countryside flying past the window and reflect wistfully as the sound of the piano playing over and over in my mind. I wonder about the guy who played so beautifully - whether he’s actually homeless, where he learned to play like he did and what’s going through his mind as he closes his eyes and effortlessly, glides his fingers across the eightly eight keys on front of him.
I want to talk to someone about it – to describe what I’ve seen and the sense of wonderment I’ve felt at being briefly transported from a routine of commuter drudgery. But of course there’s no one. And so I do something that I haven’t done for far too long. I take out my laptop and I begin to type.
Sunday, 9 December 2012
A New Friend
My phone vibrates in my jean pocket as I cross the road to the park, the other side of which houses my local cafe. It’s a beautiful morning in late summer and G is texting to say she’s overslept and won’t be able to catch a tube down to me in time for brunch. 'See you tonight?' I roll my eyes, but it’s fine and I tell her as much as I text her back. It’s fine because it’s a beautiful warm sunny morning and it means I can eat bacon and eggs in the sunshine, whilst going through the Saturday papers.
I sip my tea and scan through the supplements as I decide what to eat. And then for the third time in what seems like as many minutes, I am harassed. The problem with the outside area of the café is the constant attention that comes from Wapping’s pigeon population. Having twice tried to shoo them away, I roll up one of the magazines and draw my arm back to take a swipe at the fat grey bird that has landed on my table “fuck”(swipe) “off”. The pigeon has seen the movement coming from a mile off and retreats to a corner of the café terrace. “Poor pigeon” says a voice from the next table. I look over to see a girl with blonde hair, tied in a bun and wearing a black sleeveless summer dress. She’s hiding her eyes behind dark sunglasses as she sits back and lightly cradles a cup of tea between her fingers and thumbs. “Airborne rats, I think you mean” I say. “Poor poor pigeon” she tuts and smiles before taking another sip of her tea.
Just at that moment, the café owner walks out and approaches us on the terrace. “I’m sorry but I’ve just had four people arrive looking for a table. Would it be ok if I asked the both of you to share?” “Yeah, sure” we both say in unison as she gets up and sits in the chair opposite me. I hold out my hand and tell her my name. She takes it and tells me hers – we’ll call her V. She places her food order with the waitress, describing each item at a time, in a way that reminds me of Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. I shake my head, bemused as she looks at me and shrugs her shoulders “What!?” she says defensively. I grin curiously. “So, do you live in Wapping?” I ask. “Yes, I live just over, er.. that way” she says pointing in a general direction as she gets her bearings.
I’ve just met her, barely know her and yet as we delve into conversation, the two-way dialogue feels so easy and effortless. Contrary to the reality of meeting a stranger for the first time, this actually feels more like a catch up with an old friend from way back. We cover a lot of ground, including food, drink, writing, holidays, boyfriends, girlfriends, politics – you name it. We’ve been talking throughout brunch and now, an hour and a half and countless cups of tea later, I realise that I need to get going as I have things to do, and so does she. We pay at the counter for our orders before leaving the café to go our separate ways. It’s been a fun and unexpected brunch and as we are about to part, it feels like it would be somehow wrong to simply say goodbye and watch this girl walk out of my life.
“Well,” I say as we face each other on the pavement outside. “This has been a lovely conversation - it would be a shame not to have it again sometime.” “Yes it would be” she says, nodding in agreement. She gives me her number and I leave her a missed call. “So, see you soon then” she says. “Bye” I say, holding my hand to wave her goodbye.
I take out my phone out and dial a number. “Hello” says G. “So what happened to you this morning you lazy bitch?” I say with a sarcastic grin. “I know, sorry I had a late night and overslept. How was brunch?” “Fabulous and unexpected - I’ll tell you all about it later.” I say. “So are you going to G2’s party tonight?” she asks. “Yup, planning to. Are you?” “Yes, let’s talk then, it’s been too long, you git.” I can hear the warmth in her voice. “It has indeed – shame on you” I say, hearing her laugh at the other end of the phone. I want to talk to her about lots of things, but not right now. “Well, I’ll see you later then. “she says “Yep see you later” “Bye then” “Bye”.
I sip my tea and scan through the supplements as I decide what to eat. And then for the third time in what seems like as many minutes, I am harassed. The problem with the outside area of the café is the constant attention that comes from Wapping’s pigeon population. Having twice tried to shoo them away, I roll up one of the magazines and draw my arm back to take a swipe at the fat grey bird that has landed on my table “fuck”(swipe) “off”. The pigeon has seen the movement coming from a mile off and retreats to a corner of the café terrace. “Poor pigeon” says a voice from the next table. I look over to see a girl with blonde hair, tied in a bun and wearing a black sleeveless summer dress. She’s hiding her eyes behind dark sunglasses as she sits back and lightly cradles a cup of tea between her fingers and thumbs. “Airborne rats, I think you mean” I say. “Poor poor pigeon” she tuts and smiles before taking another sip of her tea.
Just at that moment, the café owner walks out and approaches us on the terrace. “I’m sorry but I’ve just had four people arrive looking for a table. Would it be ok if I asked the both of you to share?” “Yeah, sure” we both say in unison as she gets up and sits in the chair opposite me. I hold out my hand and tell her my name. She takes it and tells me hers – we’ll call her V. She places her food order with the waitress, describing each item at a time, in a way that reminds me of Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. I shake my head, bemused as she looks at me and shrugs her shoulders “What!?” she says defensively. I grin curiously. “So, do you live in Wapping?” I ask. “Yes, I live just over, er.. that way” she says pointing in a general direction as she gets her bearings.
I’ve just met her, barely know her and yet as we delve into conversation, the two-way dialogue feels so easy and effortless. Contrary to the reality of meeting a stranger for the first time, this actually feels more like a catch up with an old friend from way back. We cover a lot of ground, including food, drink, writing, holidays, boyfriends, girlfriends, politics – you name it. We’ve been talking throughout brunch and now, an hour and a half and countless cups of tea later, I realise that I need to get going as I have things to do, and so does she. We pay at the counter for our orders before leaving the café to go our separate ways. It’s been a fun and unexpected brunch and as we are about to part, it feels like it would be somehow wrong to simply say goodbye and watch this girl walk out of my life.
“Well,” I say as we face each other on the pavement outside. “This has been a lovely conversation - it would be a shame not to have it again sometime.” “Yes it would be” she says, nodding in agreement. She gives me her number and I leave her a missed call. “So, see you soon then” she says. “Bye” I say, holding my hand to wave her goodbye.
I take out my phone out and dial a number. “Hello” says G. “So what happened to you this morning you lazy bitch?” I say with a sarcastic grin. “I know, sorry I had a late night and overslept. How was brunch?” “Fabulous and unexpected - I’ll tell you all about it later.” I say. “So are you going to G2’s party tonight?” she asks. “Yup, planning to. Are you?” “Yes, let’s talk then, it’s been too long, you git.” I can hear the warmth in her voice. “It has indeed – shame on you” I say, hearing her laugh at the other end of the phone. I want to talk to her about lots of things, but not right now. “Well, I’ll see you later then. “she says “Yep see you later” “Bye then” “Bye”.
Saturday, 16 June 2012
First Crush
It’s a Friday night in March and a cold one, although the steak dinner and two bottles of Rioja have more than compensated for the outside temperature. We are the last people in what is a cosy restaurant near London Bridge. The conversation takes on a personal note over after dinner drinks. G brings up the subject of first loves and I listen intently as she talks about her first major crush when she was a teenager.
“And then he went out with my best friend, who funnily enough, then lost her right to that title” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that” I tell her, which G dismisses with a wave of her hand. “Ancient history now” she says before downing the remains of her Amaretto. “So, how about you” she says “who was your first crush?” I’m quite inhibited when it comes to opening up, and despite the drink, I briefly think twice before speaking. “Well....” I say as I gaze into my glass. G prods my hand with her finger. “Go on, I told you mine” she says before winking and taking a sip of my drink. I cast my mind back to the clear image of a girl from my teens.
I was 16 years old, still at school and I had a Saturday job at a cash and carry in North London. The crush in question was two years older than me and her name was Rachel Harwood. She was tall and slender with wavy brunette hair falling just past her shoulders. She had warm brown eyes which she hid behind glasses and a wide mouth smile that made you melt when it was aimed in your direction. More than that though, she was intelligent, sarcastic and witty in a way that made all the other girls I met seem bland by comparison. I was hooked – line and sinker!
Every week I’d look forward to catching the bus to work as I knew that she’d be on it, having got on only a few stops before me. That journey was one of the most fun parts of the day and I longed to pluck up the courage to ask her out.
And then one day she announced that she was leaving the cash and carry as she’d had enough, and that the following week would be her last. We spoke about her last day and how she’d feel about saying goodbye to everyone. “I might not come in you know – I’m worried that they’re going to embarrass me in some way.“ she said. “Na - people will just want to say goodbye to you.” I told her. I was thinking of me primarily. I wanted to ask her out, or at least to get her phone number. My thinking was that, shy as I was, that it would be better to ask for her number on her last day. That way, if she were to say no, then it would be less embarrassing as it was her last week anyway.
I went to work the following week, full of excitement. It was when I saw that she wasn’t on the bus that my heart began to sink. She wasn’t at work either and evidently had decided to make good on her threat of not turning up at all on her last day. I was gutted. Why hadn’t I asked for her number when I had the chance!? Why didn’t I ask her out?? There was nothing I could do but torture myself over the fact that now I would never see her again.
A few months later I asked out a girl who I’d been flirting with, and we ended up going on a couple of dates. I liked her, although by the end of the second date I kind of had the feeling that maybe it wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. Still, I thought a third date wouldn’t do any harm and we decided to go out the following Saturday night.
We met up and caught the bus that would take us to the local tube station. I usually prefer to sit downstairs on busses, but as we got on board, she asked if it was ok if we sat upstairs. I didn’t see any harm and so begrudgingly I followed her up to the top deck. The bus ride was quiet during the journey before we finally pulled up outside the tube station entrance. I followed her downstairs to the lower deck and was about to get off when I suddenly heard my name being called. I looked over to see Rachel Harwood sitting on one of the downstairs seats. She waved her arms at me and smiled the wide mouth smile that helped me fall for her when we worked together. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again, and yet there she was – sitting downstairs on the bus. The same downstairs where I had wanted to sit twenty minutes earlier. I froze. I couldn’t believe it was her. I reached my arm up to wave and opened my mouth to say something, but no sound came out. “Come on” said the date, as she grabbed my hand and pulled me off the bus. The doors closed behind me and the bus began to pull away, leaving me and my date on the pavement. I watched it drive off and saw Rachel turn around in her seat. She smiled at me and gave me a wave of her hand. It felt like a wave of goodbye – the goodbye that had been denied me at the cash and carry, months earlier. I felt more gutted than I could ever remember and in that instant I hated the date for wanting us to sit upstairs. “Come on, we’ll miss the tube” she said. I was still watching the bus as it drove further away. “That was Rachel Harwood, she used to work with us.” “Who? Oh right, come on”. I followed her into the tube station and took a last look at the big red double decker as it moved further into the distance - hope and despair trailing in the plume of its exhaust.
In the restaurant, G looks at me. “Wow” she says. I look down at my drink, in contemplation as I swirl it around the glass. “I caught the same bus every Saturday night for three weeks running, but I never saw her again” I tell her, before downing the remnants of the bourbon in my hand. “Oh my god, that’s so sweet” she says. I feign a stoic smile as I am reminded of the acute sense of dejection and helplessness that I felt in that moment outside the tube station. I look down into the empty glass as G leans forward and clasps her fingers through mine, “You’re lovely” she says softly. I look up and meet her brown eyes. A silence ensues as I hold onto her fingers. I’m about to say something, when she smiles and parts her lips as if to speak, and is immediately interrupted by a waiter. “Would you like anything else?”
“And then he went out with my best friend, who funnily enough, then lost her right to that title” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that” I tell her, which G dismisses with a wave of her hand. “Ancient history now” she says before downing the remains of her Amaretto. “So, how about you” she says “who was your first crush?” I’m quite inhibited when it comes to opening up, and despite the drink, I briefly think twice before speaking. “Well....” I say as I gaze into my glass. G prods my hand with her finger. “Go on, I told you mine” she says before winking and taking a sip of my drink. I cast my mind back to the clear image of a girl from my teens.
I was 16 years old, still at school and I had a Saturday job at a cash and carry in North London. The crush in question was two years older than me and her name was Rachel Harwood. She was tall and slender with wavy brunette hair falling just past her shoulders. She had warm brown eyes which she hid behind glasses and a wide mouth smile that made you melt when it was aimed in your direction. More than that though, she was intelligent, sarcastic and witty in a way that made all the other girls I met seem bland by comparison. I was hooked – line and sinker!
Every week I’d look forward to catching the bus to work as I knew that she’d be on it, having got on only a few stops before me. That journey was one of the most fun parts of the day and I longed to pluck up the courage to ask her out.
And then one day she announced that she was leaving the cash and carry as she’d had enough, and that the following week would be her last. We spoke about her last day and how she’d feel about saying goodbye to everyone. “I might not come in you know – I’m worried that they’re going to embarrass me in some way.“ she said. “Na - people will just want to say goodbye to you.” I told her. I was thinking of me primarily. I wanted to ask her out, or at least to get her phone number. My thinking was that, shy as I was, that it would be better to ask for her number on her last day. That way, if she were to say no, then it would be less embarrassing as it was her last week anyway.
I went to work the following week, full of excitement. It was when I saw that she wasn’t on the bus that my heart began to sink. She wasn’t at work either and evidently had decided to make good on her threat of not turning up at all on her last day. I was gutted. Why hadn’t I asked for her number when I had the chance!? Why didn’t I ask her out?? There was nothing I could do but torture myself over the fact that now I would never see her again.
A few months later I asked out a girl who I’d been flirting with, and we ended up going on a couple of dates. I liked her, although by the end of the second date I kind of had the feeling that maybe it wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. Still, I thought a third date wouldn’t do any harm and we decided to go out the following Saturday night.
We met up and caught the bus that would take us to the local tube station. I usually prefer to sit downstairs on busses, but as we got on board, she asked if it was ok if we sat upstairs. I didn’t see any harm and so begrudgingly I followed her up to the top deck. The bus ride was quiet during the journey before we finally pulled up outside the tube station entrance. I followed her downstairs to the lower deck and was about to get off when I suddenly heard my name being called. I looked over to see Rachel Harwood sitting on one of the downstairs seats. She waved her arms at me and smiled the wide mouth smile that helped me fall for her when we worked together. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again, and yet there she was – sitting downstairs on the bus. The same downstairs where I had wanted to sit twenty minutes earlier. I froze. I couldn’t believe it was her. I reached my arm up to wave and opened my mouth to say something, but no sound came out. “Come on” said the date, as she grabbed my hand and pulled me off the bus. The doors closed behind me and the bus began to pull away, leaving me and my date on the pavement. I watched it drive off and saw Rachel turn around in her seat. She smiled at me and gave me a wave of her hand. It felt like a wave of goodbye – the goodbye that had been denied me at the cash and carry, months earlier. I felt more gutted than I could ever remember and in that instant I hated the date for wanting us to sit upstairs. “Come on, we’ll miss the tube” she said. I was still watching the bus as it drove further away. “That was Rachel Harwood, she used to work with us.” “Who? Oh right, come on”. I followed her into the tube station and took a last look at the big red double decker as it moved further into the distance - hope and despair trailing in the plume of its exhaust.
In the restaurant, G looks at me. “Wow” she says. I look down at my drink, in contemplation as I swirl it around the glass. “I caught the same bus every Saturday night for three weeks running, but I never saw her again” I tell her, before downing the remnants of the bourbon in my hand. “Oh my god, that’s so sweet” she says. I feign a stoic smile as I am reminded of the acute sense of dejection and helplessness that I felt in that moment outside the tube station. I look down into the empty glass as G leans forward and clasps her fingers through mine, “You’re lovely” she says softly. I look up and meet her brown eyes. A silence ensues as I hold onto her fingers. I’m about to say something, when she smiles and parts her lips as if to speak, and is immediately interrupted by a waiter. “Would you like anything else?”
Thursday, 3 May 2012
The Party - Part 2
The last few weeks have been more stressful than any I can remember in recent years, outside of a work situation. Finally the night of the party has arrived though. The venue has been booked and paid for, the food has been ordered, and the guest list finalised – which has been quite a work in itself. My brother has phoned me earlier in day. He knows I’m bound to be stressed, but has told me just to try to relax and just enjoy the evening. Standing in front of the mirror, I hear his words in my head as I look at my reflection. I down the vodka and tonic by the bedside table and stretch my neck from side to side. I’m wearing a black suit, a white shirt and slim black tie ‘not bad’.
The buzzer of my front door sounds and I hear the blare as the taxi driver sounds the horn outside. My good friend A is waiting with the driver and a couple of other friends. “Looking good” she says as I step out of the entrance to my building. I smile and climb in to the back of the cab, and moments later we are on our way.
No sooner have we arrived at the venue, and spoken to the event manager and bar staff, than the guests start arriving, starting with a number of family members. G arrives shortly after and gives me a big hug, telling me to relax and enjoy the evening. There is then a seemingly endless period where the door is continually open with people arriving, including some who I hadn't the least idea would be able to make it.
I have been on a number of dates over the past year, and whilst things may not have worked out in the romantic sense, I now at least have a number of new friends that I didn’t have a year ago. A few of them have turned up this evening for the party. However, this also gives way to awkward introductions as people meet one another and ask the inevitable question about how they know me. “So, you’ve got a lot of ex’s here tonight” says a recent date, with her arms folded and wearing a frown. I smile sheepishly.
A friend of mine walks over to me. “Hey where’s G?" she says "I’ve read so much about her in your blogs but never met her.” G happens to be standing right behind her, overhears the conversation and turns around to catch my eye over the girls shoulder. Regular readers will know that G is the most frequent reoccurrence in this blog. “Just keep me anonymous” she regularly tells me. I shrug my shoulders at my friend “G doesn’t exist” I say “she’s based on a different person every time.” “Oh really?” says my friend disappointedly. G winks at me and reverts back to her conversation.
As more people arrive, I find it difficult to hold conversations with people for more than a few minutes at a time. I flit between different groups and try to ensure that I haven’t ignored or forgotten anyone. “People are enjoying themselves, relax and do the same” says A as she tops up my glass. I nod in agreement take a look around the room at the increasing numbers of people and smile inwardly. Just then another friend walks over to me and puts his arm around my shoulder. “Are you enjoying yourself mate?” “I am” I tell him “I’m a bit overwhelmed actually. I mean it’s one thing to see a long list of names on a guest list, but quite another to see them all in the same room together”. “Well to be honest,” he says, “the fact that you’ve managed to get this many people out, the week before Christmas, says a lot about you”. I feel a glow inside and we clink glasses.
I’m standing, facing the bar when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around to find myself face to face with the SA. “Hello” she smiles. I have history with this girl and a couple of years ago she broke my heart, although she probably isn’t aware of this fact. We’re good and close friends now though. My desire to remain cool and aloof is betrayed by the smile on my face. She looks terrific and over the next couple of hours we talk, we drink, I introduce her to friends, we dance and we kiss in the middle of the dance floor, oblivious to anyone who might be watching. She has said that she has to go to a leaving do elsewhere later, although I have put this out of my mind as we kiss. A short while later though and I am talking to someone else as she taps me on the shoulder and tells me that she has to leave. I’ve forgotten that she was going. “Stay” I say, “I can’t, I said I’d go to my friend’s do”. I sigh inwardly and with a heavy heart, I help her get her coat and walk her to the top of the stairs. We face each other in the short corridor leading from the top of the stairs to the entrance. I don't want her to go. I press her against the wall and we kiss again. After a few minutes I break the kiss. “Stay” I whisper. “I’m sorry, I can’t” she says. I look into her eyes and I realise that I’m still in love with her. ‘You’re breaking my heart’. I watch her leave as she looks back before disappearing out of the entrance.
My eyes feel hot and there’s a lump in my throat as I walk back downstairs to rejoin the party, which is now beginning to thin out. I get myself a drink from the bar, where G joins me. “You ok?” she asks. I look at her and she can see that I’m not. We take our drinks to a sofa and I tell her about what has just happened and open up about some of the history. I haven’t spoken to G about the SA before. Opening up like this isn't something that comes naturally to me. She rests her hand on mine though, and her eyes are so warm and kind that it feels so simple to talk about something so personal. It also brings an unexpectly cathartic element which lifts my mood. She hugs me warmly, her cheek against mine and reminds me that this, after all, is my birthday party. “You ok now?” she says after a while. I shrug my shoulders and smile at her. “Yes – thanks”. She stands up, taking my hand in hers as we rejoin the party.
It’s gone 2am now, and the party is a hardcore of just over half a dozen close friends. People have stopped dancing. The champagne has finished, the shots have been drunk and people are now swirling Baileys and late night Brandy. Looking around the group, there is a mutual recognition of tiredness, achy feet and a feeling that the evening is coming to a close. “Time for taxis?” says G. I nod and smile “Yes, I think so”. “Have you had a good night?” says A. I ponder - I have eaten well and drunk more than my fair share of champagne and vodka. I have been overwhelmed at the turnout, some of whom I had no idea would come. I have felt loved by close friends and my family. I have felt both deliriously happy and intensely sad, but right now I am feeling content. “Yes, a very good night”. I thank the bar staff and follow the others out into the cold December air.
Outside on the pavement, I see that A has hailed a taxi for a few of us to head back to East London and is holding the door open. I am about to get in, when I look across to see G getting into a silver taxi to head in a different direction. She looks across and we catch one another’s eye. “Thank you” I mouth at her. She blows a kiss and puts a finger and thumb to her ear as she indicates and mouths "call me". I nod before getting into the cab next to A and I close the door. “Anything you want to tell me about there?” she asks, nodding over to G. I shrug my shoulders “No, we’re just friends.” I look out of the back window and watch the silver taxi as it drives away.
The buzzer of my front door sounds and I hear the blare as the taxi driver sounds the horn outside. My good friend A is waiting with the driver and a couple of other friends. “Looking good” she says as I step out of the entrance to my building. I smile and climb in to the back of the cab, and moments later we are on our way.
No sooner have we arrived at the venue, and spoken to the event manager and bar staff, than the guests start arriving, starting with a number of family members. G arrives shortly after and gives me a big hug, telling me to relax and enjoy the evening. There is then a seemingly endless period where the door is continually open with people arriving, including some who I hadn't the least idea would be able to make it.
I have been on a number of dates over the past year, and whilst things may not have worked out in the romantic sense, I now at least have a number of new friends that I didn’t have a year ago. A few of them have turned up this evening for the party. However, this also gives way to awkward introductions as people meet one another and ask the inevitable question about how they know me. “So, you’ve got a lot of ex’s here tonight” says a recent date, with her arms folded and wearing a frown. I smile sheepishly.
A friend of mine walks over to me. “Hey where’s G?" she says "I’ve read so much about her in your blogs but never met her.” G happens to be standing right behind her, overhears the conversation and turns around to catch my eye over the girls shoulder. Regular readers will know that G is the most frequent reoccurrence in this blog. “Just keep me anonymous” she regularly tells me. I shrug my shoulders at my friend “G doesn’t exist” I say “she’s based on a different person every time.” “Oh really?” says my friend disappointedly. G winks at me and reverts back to her conversation.
As more people arrive, I find it difficult to hold conversations with people for more than a few minutes at a time. I flit between different groups and try to ensure that I haven’t ignored or forgotten anyone. “People are enjoying themselves, relax and do the same” says A as she tops up my glass. I nod in agreement take a look around the room at the increasing numbers of people and smile inwardly. Just then another friend walks over to me and puts his arm around my shoulder. “Are you enjoying yourself mate?” “I am” I tell him “I’m a bit overwhelmed actually. I mean it’s one thing to see a long list of names on a guest list, but quite another to see them all in the same room together”. “Well to be honest,” he says, “the fact that you’ve managed to get this many people out, the week before Christmas, says a lot about you”. I feel a glow inside and we clink glasses.
I’m standing, facing the bar when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around to find myself face to face with the SA. “Hello” she smiles. I have history with this girl and a couple of years ago she broke my heart, although she probably isn’t aware of this fact. We’re good and close friends now though. My desire to remain cool and aloof is betrayed by the smile on my face. She looks terrific and over the next couple of hours we talk, we drink, I introduce her to friends, we dance and we kiss in the middle of the dance floor, oblivious to anyone who might be watching. She has said that she has to go to a leaving do elsewhere later, although I have put this out of my mind as we kiss. A short while later though and I am talking to someone else as she taps me on the shoulder and tells me that she has to leave. I’ve forgotten that she was going. “Stay” I say, “I can’t, I said I’d go to my friend’s do”. I sigh inwardly and with a heavy heart, I help her get her coat and walk her to the top of the stairs. We face each other in the short corridor leading from the top of the stairs to the entrance. I don't want her to go. I press her against the wall and we kiss again. After a few minutes I break the kiss. “Stay” I whisper. “I’m sorry, I can’t” she says. I look into her eyes and I realise that I’m still in love with her. ‘You’re breaking my heart’. I watch her leave as she looks back before disappearing out of the entrance.
My eyes feel hot and there’s a lump in my throat as I walk back downstairs to rejoin the party, which is now beginning to thin out. I get myself a drink from the bar, where G joins me. “You ok?” she asks. I look at her and she can see that I’m not. We take our drinks to a sofa and I tell her about what has just happened and open up about some of the history. I haven’t spoken to G about the SA before. Opening up like this isn't something that comes naturally to me. She rests her hand on mine though, and her eyes are so warm and kind that it feels so simple to talk about something so personal. It also brings an unexpectly cathartic element which lifts my mood. She hugs me warmly, her cheek against mine and reminds me that this, after all, is my birthday party. “You ok now?” she says after a while. I shrug my shoulders and smile at her. “Yes – thanks”. She stands up, taking my hand in hers as we rejoin the party.
It’s gone 2am now, and the party is a hardcore of just over half a dozen close friends. People have stopped dancing. The champagne has finished, the shots have been drunk and people are now swirling Baileys and late night Brandy. Looking around the group, there is a mutual recognition of tiredness, achy feet and a feeling that the evening is coming to a close. “Time for taxis?” says G. I nod and smile “Yes, I think so”. “Have you had a good night?” says A. I ponder - I have eaten well and drunk more than my fair share of champagne and vodka. I have been overwhelmed at the turnout, some of whom I had no idea would come. I have felt loved by close friends and my family. I have felt both deliriously happy and intensely sad, but right now I am feeling content. “Yes, a very good night”. I thank the bar staff and follow the others out into the cold December air.
Outside on the pavement, I see that A has hailed a taxi for a few of us to head back to East London and is holding the door open. I am about to get in, when I look across to see G getting into a silver taxi to head in a different direction. She looks across and we catch one another’s eye. “Thank you” I mouth at her. She blows a kiss and puts a finger and thumb to her ear as she indicates and mouths "call me". I nod before getting into the cab next to A and I close the door. “Anything you want to tell me about there?” she asks, nodding over to G. I shrug my shoulders “No, we’re just friends.” I look out of the back window and watch the silver taxi as it drives away.
Monday, 26 March 2012
Close
“Thank you so much for coming, I wasn’t sure if you’d make it as I know you work far away.” “Don’t be silly” I say, “I said I’d come – you were terrific as ever.” N2 is a singer/songwriter and an old travel buddy of mine who I’ve known for a decade. She’s been playing a gig in North London although it’s now late and we’re saying our goodbyes before I go home.
I head to the Northern Line to get back into town and ponder the journey home from there. I could get the Central Line from Bank to Liverpool Street and then catch a bus that goes practically past my front door. ‘No, screw it’ I decide to catch the DLR to Shadwell and then walk from there. It’ll only be around midnight when I get to Bank and so the DLR should still be running. I make the change at Bank, and as expected, the DLR is indeed still running and I manage to jump onto one of the carriages just as the doors start to beep before closing. After one stop I’m at Shadwell and get off to in order to walk the final leg of the journey back to Wapping.
It's a chilly night, as I walk down Wapping Lane, and I zip up my leather jacket and put my hands in the pockets. The time is just after midnight and it’s always very quiet in the area at this hour, although you can usually spot one or two people on their way back from a night out. And this is what I see as I turn into my road. I’m not sure I have even seen where they have come from, but two guys seem to be walking in my direction.
I walk briskly because of the cold air and I’m looking straight ahead. They cross the road at the same time as me, as I walk further down the road to get to the entrance to my building. At first I have assumed that they are two friends on their way home from a night out. However, my internal alert tells me that something doesn’t feel quite right. Despite my walking at a brisk pace, they seem to be getting closer. My hands are in my pockets and I can feel my door key and the entrance fob to get me into my building as I continue to walk. One of the men who has been walking not far behind me has now caught up with me and is on my right. He has slowed down so that we are now walking at the same pace. I glance to my left and out of the corner of my eye, I can see that his friend is walking about three feet behind me. The guy to my right is almost brushing against my arm as I walk. I can see that he’s taller than me and is wearing an oversize trapper hat that hides his face. I feel a chill as I realise what is happening.
‘How am I going to get out of this?’ I feel like I’m about to be jumped at any moment. There are two of them, they are both bigger than me and I can’t remember the last time I had a fight. Fear brings with it a rush of adrenalin, and in a second I scan the immediate area for possible exits out of this situation. There should be a gate here on the left that I can quickly duck through. ‘Shit, I’ve passed it already’ The next gate is 10 meters away. ‘Look straight ahead, pretend you haven’t noticed them’ 6 metres. I can’t run. If I make a run for it then it’s game over, 4 metres. I need to look like I’m walking straight down the road and hope for the tiniest element of surprise when I make a sharp left at the gate, 2 metres. My heart is pounding as I get closer to the gate and I just hope that I'm not jumped before I reach it. 1 metre. ‘One more step - Now!’
I make a sudden turn on my heal through the gate entrance and almost immediately make another left. I pull the key fob out of my pocket as I reach the entrance door of my building. In an instant, the door beeps and I am inside, pulling it closed behind me. I glance over quickly to see both guys standing still and looking at me. ‘Are they following?’ I don’t stop moving and my flat is on the 4th floor. ‘Stairs of lift?’ My paranoia tells me that I’m safer on the stairs, which I run up, two steps at a time until I reach my floor. I haven’t heard anyone come through the security door behind me, although I don’t slow down for a moment. I walk briskly along the walkway and within a minute I am at my front door. I am slightly out of breath and my heart is pounding in my chest, but I am home and I am safe.
I open my front door and sling my leather jacket on the sofa as I walk past the lounge. It’s then that I contemplate the last few minutes and what a close run experience I have just had. And now I feel angry, fuelled by the adrenalin, as I think of the I-phone inside my jacket on the sofa, the cash in my wallet, still in my jeans and the bank cards that I now won’t have to cancel. ‘Fucking bastards, how fucking dare they...’ I am too wound up to go straight to bed and so I undress in the bathroom, leaving my clothes in a heap on the floor and stand under the shower whilst I brood over what might otherwise have been. 10 minutes later I dry myself as I continue to mull it over. I toss the towel over one of the bedposts and climb naked under the duvet. I close my eyes and 10 minutes later I am asleep.
I head to the Northern Line to get back into town and ponder the journey home from there. I could get the Central Line from Bank to Liverpool Street and then catch a bus that goes practically past my front door. ‘No, screw it’ I decide to catch the DLR to Shadwell and then walk from there. It’ll only be around midnight when I get to Bank and so the DLR should still be running. I make the change at Bank, and as expected, the DLR is indeed still running and I manage to jump onto one of the carriages just as the doors start to beep before closing. After one stop I’m at Shadwell and get off to in order to walk the final leg of the journey back to Wapping.
It's a chilly night, as I walk down Wapping Lane, and I zip up my leather jacket and put my hands in the pockets. The time is just after midnight and it’s always very quiet in the area at this hour, although you can usually spot one or two people on their way back from a night out. And this is what I see as I turn into my road. I’m not sure I have even seen where they have come from, but two guys seem to be walking in my direction.
I walk briskly because of the cold air and I’m looking straight ahead. They cross the road at the same time as me, as I walk further down the road to get to the entrance to my building. At first I have assumed that they are two friends on their way home from a night out. However, my internal alert tells me that something doesn’t feel quite right. Despite my walking at a brisk pace, they seem to be getting closer. My hands are in my pockets and I can feel my door key and the entrance fob to get me into my building as I continue to walk. One of the men who has been walking not far behind me has now caught up with me and is on my right. He has slowed down so that we are now walking at the same pace. I glance to my left and out of the corner of my eye, I can see that his friend is walking about three feet behind me. The guy to my right is almost brushing against my arm as I walk. I can see that he’s taller than me and is wearing an oversize trapper hat that hides his face. I feel a chill as I realise what is happening.
‘How am I going to get out of this?’ I feel like I’m about to be jumped at any moment. There are two of them, they are both bigger than me and I can’t remember the last time I had a fight. Fear brings with it a rush of adrenalin, and in a second I scan the immediate area for possible exits out of this situation. There should be a gate here on the left that I can quickly duck through. ‘Shit, I’ve passed it already’ The next gate is 10 meters away. ‘Look straight ahead, pretend you haven’t noticed them’ 6 metres. I can’t run. If I make a run for it then it’s game over, 4 metres. I need to look like I’m walking straight down the road and hope for the tiniest element of surprise when I make a sharp left at the gate, 2 metres. My heart is pounding as I get closer to the gate and I just hope that I'm not jumped before I reach it. 1 metre. ‘One more step - Now!’
I make a sudden turn on my heal through the gate entrance and almost immediately make another left. I pull the key fob out of my pocket as I reach the entrance door of my building. In an instant, the door beeps and I am inside, pulling it closed behind me. I glance over quickly to see both guys standing still and looking at me. ‘Are they following?’ I don’t stop moving and my flat is on the 4th floor. ‘Stairs of lift?’ My paranoia tells me that I’m safer on the stairs, which I run up, two steps at a time until I reach my floor. I haven’t heard anyone come through the security door behind me, although I don’t slow down for a moment. I walk briskly along the walkway and within a minute I am at my front door. I am slightly out of breath and my heart is pounding in my chest, but I am home and I am safe.
I open my front door and sling my leather jacket on the sofa as I walk past the lounge. It’s then that I contemplate the last few minutes and what a close run experience I have just had. And now I feel angry, fuelled by the adrenalin, as I think of the I-phone inside my jacket on the sofa, the cash in my wallet, still in my jeans and the bank cards that I now won’t have to cancel. ‘Fucking bastards, how fucking dare they...’ I am too wound up to go straight to bed and so I undress in the bathroom, leaving my clothes in a heap on the floor and stand under the shower whilst I brood over what might otherwise have been. 10 minutes later I dry myself as I continue to mull it over. I toss the towel over one of the bedposts and climb naked under the duvet. I close my eyes and 10 minutes later I am asleep.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)