The week has passed autumnally.
Yesterday, deserted by the muse, I put out a twitter plea.
‘If you have any ideas for what I should write about this week, do tell me, because I’m drawing a blank.’
Quickly came the reply.
‘Tell us what you did on Tuesday.’
It’s as good a starting point as any.
On Tuesday morning I walked downstairs, forgot why, walked back upstairs, got distracted by a thing, did half of said thing, got distracted by another thing, decided to make a cup of coffee, walked back downstairs, forgot why.
The second time I walked downstairs, the cat decided to do its daily Human Leg Slalom practice. I briefly wondered if it was the reincarnation of my worst childhood enemy, returned to wreak dastardly and undetectable revenge for crimes long forgotten. There’s a Roald Dahl short story in there somewhere.
I tried to write a thousand good words. I failed, by five hundred and ‘good’.
I started reading a book consistently hailed as ‘the funniest book ever written’. Two chapters in, I wondered when it would start being funny.
I went into London for an appointment and afterwards walked along the banks of the river, determined to make the most of London for once. We live in one of the great cities, extol its virtues, and then ignore it, allowing theatre, architecture, concerts, opera, exhibitions (‘oh it’s on for six months – there’s plenty of time to catch it’), basic tourist attractions (never been to Buckingham Palace or the Tower of London – why would I? I LIVE here), craft breweries, funky street food and artisan ketchup boutiques to pass us by. For all the good they do us, we might as well live in Ashburton or Deal or Bamburgh (other small towns are available). So the least I could do, I thought, was stroll along the South Bank and drink in some of London’s utter brilliance.
So I did.
I met Colin. Colin is a black-headed gull, and like any right-minded patriot he was posing in front of Big Ben.
I met Harry. Harry is a young and handsome herring gull. If he could be said to have a fault, it’s that he’s prone to peck at passersby, as the Japanese couple next to me discovered.
A saw a football floating along the Thames, because that’s the kind of river it is.
By Lambeth Palace I saw a bust I’d never noticed before. It is of Violette Szabo.
I knew the name vaguely (too vaguely – shame on me), so I sat on a nearby bench, looked her up, and spent quarter of an hour in quiet contemplation of the astonishing bravery of some people, and the bewildering cruelty of others. I wondered how she coped with fear (for fear she must have felt), whether this capacity for valour in the face of overwhelming physical danger was innate, trained or born of necessity, or (most likely) a combination of them all.
I walked slowly on, lost in thought, and nearly tripped over a bra on the ground. It was conveniently and eye-catchingly framed by yellow corners, as if marked by the police, but I still nearly snagged my feet in it. How I survive the cat on a daily basis is one of the wonders of the modern world.
I went home and spent some time with Mahler, both theoretically (fixing key points of his First Symphony in my mind) and, later, practically (rehearsing it). Darn, he was good, even if his cuckoo weirdly sings a perfect fourth instead of the more usual major third-or-thereabouts.
On the way home from my rehearsal, walking up the fifty-yards-too-long hill to our house with steady and exhausted tread, I heard a ‘tseep’ overhead. The transliteration of bird sounds is a notoriously fraught area, but this one the guides all agree on.
Redwing. A winter thrush, migrated from Scandinavia, and one of the harbingers of true autumn. The ‘tseep’ of an invisible redwing overhead is a reminder of just how much of nature happens out of our sight, only giving us glimpses of a fraction of its glory.
Autumn’s a miraculous time of year, a time of change and colour: trees running the gamut of the Pantone colour chart from 18-1048 TCX (Monk’s Robe) to 12-0645 TN (Lemon Tonic) and all the shades between, conkers, hot chocolate, leafy walks, thick socks, chunky sweaters, Strictly, family fights over whether to turn the heating on, and all the rest of it, including that ‘tseep’. It got me up the hill and to my front door. Just about.
I opened the door, closed it behind me, and tripped over the cat.
Tuesday, you bastard.
Like this? Want more? Subscribe to my newsletter.
Another brilliantly written column about practically nothing, except that you always manage to create a whole new world out of the ordinary that we take for granted. As always, you made me laugh and ponder and wonder why I don’t manage to see as much as you do. Thank you!
Thank you so much, Martha. I’m really glad you enjoyed it and appreciate your continued support.