Sacrilege

Walking past the churchyard, deep in the shade of a great yew tree, I spy a pretty tabby cat, with white socks, shitting on someone’s grave.

Flirt

At the bottom of the street lives a builder with a fat, tired-looking wife, and a cheeky little boy so full of life he makes me grin. The builder has twinkling eyes and curly hair. In truth, I rather fancy him. Over the months, we have smiled in a neighbourly fashion, and now say ‘hello’ when our paths cross. Tonight, he walks past me on the hill and gives me a slightly shy, but sincere smile. ‘Hi.’ I breathe, smiling back, then walk a little bit taller all the way home.

Honour

My friend leaves the party. Walking over to say ‘goodbye’, she cups my face in her hand, tenderly kisses each cheek – as is her custom, and looking deep into my eyes, tells me she is there for me, and to let her know if there is anything she can do to ameliorate my suffering. I feel blessed by her Gallic grace. I bask in the cool reassurance of her blue eyes. And I know that she means it; as once I was there for her, she will not demur returning the favour.

Truth

Behind the office, a building is being renovated. Scaffolding abounds. The mews is filled with vans, skips and builders. I look out of the kitchen window. It's lunchtime; the builders are at rest. One walks towards me, 'BIG MAN. BIG HEART.' his t-shirt proclaims. He is well over six foot tall, shaved head, large diamond stud in one ear, a flourescent yellow waistcoat, shorts and big, dusty boots. Certainly, he is a big man, and for all his apparent ferocity, I hope the woman he goes home to can attest to his generous heart.

Marriage

Every morning I pass a pistachio green Nissan Figaro parked neatly in a side street. It is perfectly maintained, shiny and cute, a complete contrast to the dark, 4x4 behemoths with their ugly square lines and tinted windows that otherwise line the Belgravia street. I love this little car, covet it. I wonder who owns it and if it has a name. It looks like a Freddie to me.

Guilty Pleasure

I buy a packet of ‘extremely chocolatey’ biscuits and walk back to my office. As my chocolate craving intensifies, I try opening the packet to eat a biscuit as I walk. In my desperation to get to the sugar, I fumble, and the packet falls to the pavement with a crash. I stoop to pick it up, look around me, embarrassed by my greed. I catch the eye of woman watching me and she gives me a conspiratorial smile – the vagaries of PMS are clearly known to her.

Eye Contact

Heading northbound on the Victoria Line, I sit opposite a goth. He has startlingly blue eyes and pale skin made wan by his dyed black hair. A slight air of effeminacy pervades. I stare. He catches me. We exchange a London smile; fleeting, eyes sliding off sideways. Handsome in his way, I am intrigued. He watches me now. The dance continues to Euston, where he alights.

The Price Of Beauty

Outside the magistrate’s court, a lady biker fixes herself up before going into work. She brushes her long hair until it shines loosely, then applies hairspray, holding the can above her head and spraying from side to side until she is satisfied her head is covered. I watch the fine mist of hairspray drift away in the breeze without touching the coiffure below. She is oblivious, busy applying lipstick as the wind now catches her hair.

Overheard I

Two men board the train and stand behind me. They are halfway through a conversation:

'So what did Clare think?

'Clare was bell ringing. So I didn't want to 'phone her because she wouldn't hear.'

'Yeah, it is quite loud.'

Precious

The evening sun shines brightly behind a thin veil of rain clouds, the usual gold of approaching sunset replaced by glittering silver. I walk up the hill, enjoying the sensation of a light yet chilly breeze caressing my fingertips, and openly stare at a beautiful motorbike, complete with leather-clad rider, descending the hill. The visor of his helmet is tinted but he turns his head and I know he is watching me gazing at him and his wonderful machine. In a second, he is gone. What did he see?

Yellow Peril

A lady totters down Brompton Road. Her skirt is pale, lemon yellow cotton, her top is a warm golden yellow and crocheted. Her shoes are pewter and so high she is struggling to walk. Her legs are a funny colour – too much fake tan – and they clash with her skirt. Her arms, on the other hand, are corpse-like in their whiteness. She looks unwell. And strange. I wonder if she has far to walk, and hope, for her sake, she has not.

Sing For The Lord

At the Spiritualist church service, an elderly lady with an electric keyboard leads the hymns, singing in a quavering soprano, rich with vibrato, and a little sharp in the upper reaches of her impressive range. It is hard to follow the tune because she adds little flourishes to all the scales, so I am relieved when the guest medium starts singing in a loud baritone that is much easier to sing along with. I wonder where and how and why the soprano learned to sing, what secrets lie in her past, was she a piano teacher, rapping unwilling boys across the knuckles at their after-school lessons, or perhaps she was a chorus girl, high-kicking her way across a West End stage. The thought makes me giggle and lose my place in the hymn.

Miss Match

At the bus stop, a pretty, young Asian woman looks confused. She’s wearing yellow, flowered ankle boots with turquoise heels, thick, black tights, a black dress with large, white polka dots, and a baby pink, crocheted cardigan. I can’t decide if she’s a tourist with foreign fashion sensibilities, a knowing local taking London sartorial eclecticism to the extreme, or on drugs.

Like Father...

Standing on the platform at the train station this morning I spy two men. It is instantly apparent they are father and son, the similarity being so striking. I wonder if they realise how alike they are, if the son looks to his father for an indication of how he will appear in twenty-odd years time. And I am touched that they are together, obviously off on an adventure; a Grand Day Out in shorts and sunshine.

Cry Wolf

I sit on the bus, gazing at the Houses of Parliament as we cross Westminster Bridge. A man walks along the bridge wearing a t-shirt with a huge picture of a wolf's face on it. His pot belly conspires to push the wolf's snout forward, lending a 3-D effect to the image. I giggle.

The Rationale

As a pantheist, I tend to find God* is in the little things. We all have those moments of grace where the heavens conspire to deliver a slice of life too good to ignore. This blog is a receptacle for mine. Expect random (in every sense) observations, miraculous mundanities, and crimes against fashion; if it tickles me, I'll post it, as and when, no pressure.

Due obeisance to Clare's Three Beautiful Things, a blog that inspired me to believe in the validity of expressing such thoughts, confirming that noticing the world around me mattered.

* God, Dog, Great Spirit, Yahweh - whatever you want to call it.