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.