Window Shopping

It's late; a long day in the office. As ever, I turn left out of the train station and hurry past the little parade of shops, keen to get home, get warm, get some supper. The window of the charity shop is full of bric-a-brac that I scan habitually, always on the look out for something deemed superfluous, redundant in one life that might come in handy in mine. I spot it, sitting back from the glare of the street lamps, on the left hand side of the main window and its presence strikes me as so very sad; a primary-coloured mug with the words 'World's Best Dad' filling its exterior surface.

As I make my way up the hill, I consider what might have led to that mug being discarded, and I feel a keen sense of loss.

Mercer Street

‘Surely,’ I think to myself, ‘If you walk down the same street enough times, the memory fades, supplanted by new experiences, new moments to treasure, memories that don’t tug at my heart and remind me of him.’ But it hasn’t happened yet. This morning I passed an old lady, stepping out of my path so she didn’t have to. She looked up at me from under her headscarf and smiled a smile that was no bribe to sweeten a lonely, unspoken request for conversation. Neither did her eyes contain surreptitious need, in fact she asked nothing, just acknowledged my courtesy and in the smile I returned, our eyes met and a simple connection briefly formed.

I continued walking and hoped, when I reached her age, that I, also, would have managed my needs and lived a life that left me free to meet the gaze of strangers benevolently.

I recall that smile, that train of thought, as I walk down the street later that day but at the end of it, there he is, his memory constant in a way our relationship never was. ‘Surely,’ I think to myself, ‘If I walk down this street enough times…’

Handbag

I see the same woman on the train every morning. Her hair is greying, cut in a style, I suspect, she has worn since the 1980's, a 'Lady Diana' it used to be called. She doesn't wear make-up. Her clothes are plain; navy or black jacket and a series of inoffensive, pastel-coloured tops. I can't see the bottom half of her as she sits in her train seat, but I expect her shoes are sensible and her skirts fall below the knee. She often wears a garish brooch - a bright gold and diamanté affair with a cat sitting in a crescent moon. It is kitsch, vulgar even.

The woman's pale eyes are kind. Sometimes she reads a book. Other times, she listens to an old-fashioned CD Walkman and stares out of the window. But her handbag is always on her lap. The handbag is extraordinary; a black leather confection of shiny buckles and leather tassels almost entirely covered in metal studs. It looks so out of place on her lap, a beacon of dark, fetishistic style. I wonder if it was a present, or if she bought it herself, and if she did, what thought process, what desire led her to choose that bag. Is it her totem, is it her truth, is it her aspiration? Nothing in her impassive face offers any clue, but every morning, I wonder.

Statement

St. Martin's Lane is a one-way street. I'm walking in the same direction as the traffic, hurrying along the gutter, keen to get home. I feel the loud, heavy bass as much as hear it pumping from the stereo of a car behind me. The music is aggressive - overtly masculine, hip-hop - and I turn to look behind me, expecting a large black SUV with tinted windows and personalised number plates. Instead of the cliché, a small silver Smart car pulls into a parking space, a bespectacled white guy behind the wheel, and I laugh out loud at the disparity.

Again

I've started a new blog; The Pole Affair II.

You can click through to it from my profile. In the wake of the current court case, I'm going to leave the original offline for a while.

Job Centre

After four months of unemployment, I go to sign on for the last time. The woman who calls me to her desk is new and full of bright, apologetic smiles that try to convey in the brief five-minute time slot her empathy and that I am a person in this system designed to shame me back to work. I let her go through the motions of checking my job search record book and asking about my Jobseekers' Agreement but when she pauses, I tell her I have been offered and have accepted a job. Her enthusiasm is embarrassing as she tells me what wonderful news that is and I squirm, but it's when she asks me if I'm looking forward to it that I have to fight back the tears because there's no place here for me to confess my terror of returning to work, or to admit how useless I feel and how worried I am that I will not cope. That's what unemployment and an infantilising system does for you. She goes off to ask a colleague about some aspect of the process that follows my news and I am left in the busy job centre, staring at the ceiling, trying to compose myself. I get a picture of myself and how ridiculous I must look. People rush about, in and out, processing the jobless, trying to remain positive in the face of their inertia, ineptitude and, as in my case, hopelessness. I've played the game and the system has supported me in that. I'm grateful - grateful for the benefits and grateful I won't have to go there again. But I still leave with a heavy heart.

Lifting

After two days of steel skies so heavy with relentless rain, I awake to sunshine. At first, I can't quite believe it or shake off the dark, compressed mood that settled, bedded in and held my head down. Driving under the bright blue sky, past a carnival of autumn foliage, I still can't bring myself to feel anything but crushing sadness and disappointment at the path life has taken. Eventually, the hot sun fills the car and I open the windows, am forced to breathe in fresh air laced with sunshine and hope in the midst of this kaleidoscope of decay. My chest expands and lets in air and light. I sing along to the music on the radio and cry painful tears, tears of loss and tears of fear. And when I arrive, park, and step out of the car I realise, for the first time in many days, that I am aware of the world around me. My skin registers the warm sun, my lungs register the fresh air, the breeze caresses and I feel pleasure, my stiff muscles ask to be stretched and smile at the long strides I take. The enervating greyness gone, sunshine lifts me and I understand why the birds sing.