Winter Walks.(Retrospective)

Today she walked from the flat to Covent Garden. She felt like she owed it to herself to get some exercise. Coffee first then the most beautiful leek and potato soup ever. It was drizzled with some extra-virgin olive oil and rosemary. So light and fresh.

She was walking over the pedestrian footpath spanning the width of the Thames which was so choppy; brown and choppy and terrifying. The wind lashed. The steel-pan man, however, was there as usual, busking, protected  from the angry gales by his hat and coat. It was a far cry from last week when his brightly coloured shirt seemed to dance in tandem with the old-time calypso strains echoing from his tenor pan.

She didn't quite remember what it was that made her well-up when she saw him. It might have been the determined expression of drudgery on his face, or how his face mirrored the brown and choppy Thames. Or perhaps it was  the token 50p's passers-by tossed nonchalantly into his pan case which lay open on the ground and how incongruous, 'Jean and Dinah,' sounded on this bleak day in London.

The fact that, 'Jean and Dinah,' evoked memories of balmy evenings, the scent of oranges in the air, discarded Carib bottles being rolled into drains and a far-off beat of some receding band. Or it might have been the knowledge that she was the only person on that bridge, apart from him, who had had that memory. But as she walked past him, she neither tossed a nonchalant 50p nor made eye-contact with the man.

As she walked she could not deny the beauty of the river. If you are walking toward Charing Cross and look to your right, St. Paul's is so beautiful  lit-up on the skyline and so is the Royal Festival Hall in blue and she often wondered if the lights on the hall ever coordinated with the ones on the London Eye. And the view towards Waterloo was breathtaking where the trees along the South Bank, lit with filigree blue lights, evoked romance especially on a frosty night.

She so loved a wintertime Thames, but she also loved balmy nights with the scent of oranges and fangipani in the air and she was afraid that that memory was disappearing-the orange scented one- and one day she'd wake up and only know the chilly air and would have seek this pan-man busker to remind her of it, again.

Home?

It's been ages since I've been able to write about moving back home to Trinidad. To be able to describe the traumatic rift of uprooting yourself from one reality and replacing it with another. The physical aspect of that change is momentary. It takes far longer for your mind and soul to catch up and recognise that change has taken place.
My last weeks in London I was unable to confront the emotional aspects of leaving. I couldn't confront saying goodbye to people, places that I loved. It is only now, almost a year later that I'm dealing with the fall-out of my choices. Once cannot anticipate the psychic fracturing that occurs with that kind of displacement. I didn't anticipate it.

The truth is, I miss London. I miss me in London.  I miss my girlfriends, great coffee, the theatre and the temperate climate. I miss the constant stimulation, variety of foods and the continent. I think of this in juxtaposition to rolling hills and unrelenting heat. I tried not to romanticise Trinidad too much before I moved back. I kept reality firmly in check with daily,online, readings of the Trinidad Express.

I forget about this conflict, though,  when I walk up Chancellor Hill and am rewarded at its summit by the view of the city. The golden and candy-floss coloured Poui blossoms heralding the first rains takes me back to a more innocent time as does having a snow-cone round the Savannah. Now that I'm home I wonder how I could have ever forgotten about mango season or making kites and  the dust kicking up behind you as you run along trying to make them fly.

India beginnings

India. Off on Friday.

So much time has elapsed since last I wrote here. The weather has been great and I truly feel that summer has arrived.

Have spent many an evening sprawled near to some river, just basking avec some pimms. India will be a nice contrast.

Force-ripe orange.

The sun really put on a fantastic show this weekend. It did well to scatter the clouds and the bleak drugery that has held London in its grip for the longest while.

It was lovely in Spitalfields this afternoon. It seemed that all the youth of the city were out and enlivened by this sudden change in weather. The sun was so blinding that I even felt compelled to wear my vinatge shades; a nod to the encroaching warmer weather.

But don't get me wrong. It was still bloody freezing! I felt happy winding through the stalls, peeking at hats and fascinators and other wierd-and-wonderful creations. Vibesing to the the dub-step, remembering walking hand-in-hand with him of last year and him of four and seven years ago.

We wondered if we'd ever meet "Mr Right."
"Far too cynical for that now, I responded."
"Maybe Mr alright," said my friend.

"What scares me about moving back home is that we'd have to make friends all over again."
"Yup."
"The thought is enticing."

Through the coffee shop window the sun was blazing. The sky was a deep blue, the same blue that I only started recognising on my holidays to Trinidad. Immediately that longing feeling crept inside me. I get it sometimes on a Sunday evening, when I start thinking about work.

I imagined Sundays spent lazing on the beach or sitting on some cool verandah, a pot bubbling somewhere.

We stepped outside and were at once lashed by the wind.

"Oh lorse," said my urban backpacking friend. We huddled close as we made our way down the street.

The sun was like a force-ripe orange in the sky.

Escalator

Descending the escalator into the Hades-like cavern of the tube, she saw the approaching faces of those on the opposite side going in the other direction. Weary commuter faces-wrinkled eyes, drooped shoulders. Some had decided to trek up the long moving stairs, others stood, zombie-like.

Friday. Home.Large glass of red-wine. Solace. Peace instead of the forced sweaty intimacy of strangers. She stood staring into the eyes of these people. She felt invisible in this place. Self-conscious. Her dark hair belied the traditional notions of beauty. Her wide hips rebelled in spite of the rigorous army-esq training to which she subjected them. Her waist seemed to belong to another body.

She wondered if her lipstick was too pink, if people looked at her and knew instinctively that she had straightened her hair. On each side of the escalator were posters advertising theatre and beauty products promising fuller lips or younger-looking-skin.

Teens approached on their upward journey, gelled hair covering eyes, short skirts, long legs, thin hips. Loud chatter. The investment banker, the older man in the suit, the arty type; they all hovered past.

Suddenly someone like her-thick hips, hair in a pony-tail, dark circles, Primark duffel, No loud laughter, gelled fringes or short skirt.

This escalator journey was like a moment offered by the city to be carried allowing your thoughts to drift elsewhere. Finally she reached the bottom. She stepped off and disappeared into the masses.

Snow and decision making.

Since last October, my capacity for making choices seems to have left me. Should I stay in Southwark or return to the burbs, sell me car or keep it, should I have a coffee this morning or this afternoon? I feel like I've been deposited in the middle point of a "V" and am unable to climb out of it.

Like walking home from work this evening. I was thinking that it was so lovely that the evenings are lightening up. The sun was stark, but was competing with the encroaching snowy clouds. The juxtaposition was startling. I was trying to walk quickly so I wouldn't feel the merciless cold that was threatening to pounce. In the midst of this I was contemplating whether or not I should pop into Lloyd's TSB to deposit some money. "I should really transfer it online," I thought to myself." "I'll do it tomorrow," my procrastinating demon responded! In the end I went into the branch. It was fine. Crisis averted.

Managed to get on the last train that was leaving Wimbledon, just before the snow flurries descended. I sat down exhausted after a long day and began thinking about Valentine's day which was swiftly encroaching. I didn't even want to look into the Evening Standard for fear I would be bombarded with images of hearts and pink and "dine-in-for-a-tenner" deals.

Out of the window the snow was horizontal. At Earlsfield some guy got on the train who made eye contact with every female on my aisle. Someone two seats ahead ate some smelly food. I thought of hot sun and pretty costumes and an old friend who would be flying back home, permanently, this evening. My insides ached. I so missed my home then. I felt displaced, tired.
Dreamt about a wooden house with wrap-around verandahs in lush mountains. El Tucuche.

Then the train pulled into Waterloo.

As we all disembarked a snow flurry caught my face. I looked up and noticed that the flurries had found their way through the ancient glass of the Waterloo Station ceiling. They fell individually, enhanced by the lights of old gas lamps. For a moment the din was inaudible. At once I was in a gazebo in some winterwonderland place.

The anxiety returned as I made my way through the barriers and negotiated the impassable mass of the commuter body who stood transfixed to the screens; unseeing and unknowing. "I should really go to the gym tonight." The anti-decision making demon had returned.

Along the Cut the flurries were sticking. It stuck to faces, hair and eyelashes and for the first time ever, I enjoyed walking through falling snow.