the sun

Now that the sun has finally found its way to our shores, a pertinent moment to cast back to January...










Emerging from the seasonless light of the underground into Russell Square apricot yellows and tropical greens disappear behind eyelids and flicker with each blink. Yet the dawn is unmistakably grey and muted. First day back on the work routine after a holiday in the sun. The final days of January.

The people damp and sullen look only at the floor in shuffled acceptance, I see the same characters that I recognise but do not know – the same legion of dog-walkers and commuters that frequent this space at this hour each with their own appointment with me. 7:59 – knotted-brow-man has a new Man Utd beanie pulled down across his forehead – maybe a xmas present. 8:03 – beret lady – rushing as per with power-walk strides. 8:06 – white-haired gent with matching Scottish terrier (once broke the London silence to draw my attention to my fallen gloves); I give him a smile and almost say a hearty ‘Good Morning’ but he turns awkwardly away.

Passing the British Museum a blink gives back the row of plane trees their greenery, but only for a moment. Plodding along it’s not until 8:09 that I notice… where is waistcoat-moustache man?! I hope he’s on holiday somewhere… in the sun.

psst

[written a month ago]


After a few moments my head adjusted to the soft quiet and I stood stock still.

Psst...

Psst...

Psst... pst.. psssst


Each flake sizzled, extinguishing itself at my collar, vying for my attention. I shift focus from ears to nose and after a quick sniffle remember sight. Everything is bathed in orange purpleness - reflected urban light. I feel a slow-burn warmth running beneath each piece of exposed skin. I pull my hat off and feel the snow cling to my flattened hair.
At the far end of the field near the distant houses a silhouette appears with two dogs - muffled woofs mute themselves racing over the snow towards me. In moments they disappear behind a row of trees. Behind me the mass of Alexandra Palace invisible in low cloud and streams of white.

For the next hour I see no-one besides my marathon training companion, carving zigzags along the perimeter. Jogging here with him I am now cooking inside too many layers of thermal and thick-knit. The park is beautiful, every tree under-lit and over-sprinkled. The sounds underfoot vary from ice crunch to wet slush with in between squeaks that sound like I'm stepping on bubble-wrap. The emptiness is delightful - I would never ordinarily come here alone at night, but I couldn't feel more at ease. All my fantasy villains tucked up indoors with mugs of villainous tea - steaming into their scowls.

The trains roll on, windows lit and from this distance empty. The shuwish-oo-wish lilts in the air swallowed slowly so as to be better savoured. Marathon boy appears on the track heading back and we weave through thickets and white-washed pathways. Winding back onto the road is wetter, people reappear walking quickly.



Towelling off a snowy head I'm plunged into a fog world through glasses. Stepping out of the shower steam rushed past into the icy corridor. Head on the pillow the silence settles again but behind my curtains it comes again...

psst.