where art collides

Lying awake in bed is when you realise that when it all comes down to it we are all just animals. The grunts, loud breathing and snores coming from the person next to you!

A nomad I, wandering these flat, people-scorched streets of sunless stone. Infinitely deep puddles crater the roads, obstructing my senses, confusing an endless search which already, unsignposted, makes no sense. Tall buildings obscure the vision and without a map make impossible a plan.

I pass brightly lit front rooms with televisions flickering through uncurtained windows, the occasional canned roar of a compliant audience sometimes audible. Not stopping in case I’m seen looking I move on and leave them to their entertainments.

Further on I come to the pub. It too is brightly lit and I can see faces leaning forwards at the bar. A log fire dances in the grate and some drinkers sit at tables either side of the hearth, warmed inside and out. More occasional laughter.

It is a Sunday and I walk by a church. Dim lighting shines through the multicoloured stained glass above. The door is open and another column of light illuminates the entrance. One of the faithful scurries past, enters and is consumed.

Arriving home at last with cold hands I fumble with my keys at the lock and open the front door. The house is dark but I switch on a light and then prod the heating. I make a cup of tea, sit in my chair and think.

streamofconsciousnesssittinghereinthekitchentryinghardnotousethe
spacebarandlisteningtoclassicfmontheradiojosephissittingoppositem
ereadinghisbookwhilstisipataglassofchileanmerlotitisveryrelaxingivej
ustfinishedmyfishandchipsbutnotyetclearedthetableoftheremnants
ofthemealanneisoutatanotherofhermeetingsnotsurewhetheritissund
ayschoolteacherspccoreastgateschoolgovernorshannahisupinherro
omiveheardherbutnotseenherjohnhasjustchangedintohispyjamasino
rdertobeallowedtowatchtherestoftopgearandtomhasjustfinishedhis
foodhavingbeenoutatsirenfmandnowgawdonlyknowswhatheisdoing
upinhisroomthatsasnapshotofmylifebetweeneighttwentyandeightt
wentytwoonthursdaythefirstofoctobertwothousandandninewhere
doesthetimego

There’s something about getting up early to travel somewhere. There’s a smell to it, especially if the weather looks as if it is going to be nice. The roads are clear. The journey to the station is a lot quicker than it would have been a couple of hours later. When you get there the car park is fairly empty so you can pick your spot.

This morning I am in Newark Northgate station catching the 06.46 to the big city. The situation is exactly as described above. Last night there was a red sky and so of course this is a pleasant early morning.

On my way in from the car park a man runs past. The 06.26 has just pulled in to the station and he needs to be on it. In my mind he is not going to catch it but looking up at the screen I see that he has two minutes so he is probably ok.

The staff are all in. In fact at the Costa Coffee on platform 1 there are three staff and just me. I grab a latte and a croissant and make my way to the waiting room. There’s no one else on the platform although a couple of newspaper readers have staked out the waiting room. Detectives with nobody to watch but each other.

Gradually, as we approach train time, the platform is starting to fill up. Someone strikes up a conversation in the waiting room. That first word seems almost like a wake up call. The transition of night into day. It has disturbed my reverie.

The imminent arrival of the train is announced and I emerge from the comfort of the waiting room to stand on the platform. Outside the day has definitely arrived. Whirring noises and chatty teenagers mix with still stony-faced commuters steeling themselves for another day down their pit. I get on the train and leave Newark behind…

later
the masses wash onboard at Peterborough, disrupt the carriage and settle into their own personal mode of survival. Internet access slows to a snails pace or goes into reverse, resuming normal service

It’s early but I’m up. When you’re awake you’re awake. So I’m sat here on the settee in the front room.

Although we live slap bang in the middle of town there is a silence about the place at this time in the morning. It’s an unusual contrast of noise and no noise. I can hear lorries as they drive past outside. I don’t normally notice the noise of the traffic outside. I’m used to it.

Then there’s the clock. I didn’t even know it ticked but I can hear it clearly now. At first when I heard it I thought to myself “that’s a clock ticking! It must be in another room”. Upon investigation I realised that it was the clock on the mantlepiece in the room where I was sat. Amazing! My life will probably never be the same again. Every time I walk into this room I will hear the clock ticking. I’m not sure that this is a change for the good.

Ah well. It must all point to our house being a noisy house though because I don’t notice any of these sounds during the day. Actually the traffic is now also irritating me. How dare it intrude. I don’t hear it when I’m in bed and the bedroom is on the same side of the house as where I’m sat now – the double glazing in the bedroom probably accounts for that.

At 5.44 I can hear Tom move about above me. It isn’t natural for a teenager to be up this early ?. It’s still very dark out although there are plenty of lights in town. They seem to contrast with the darkness. There is dark and there is light. No in between.

The traffic has died down again but the clock still ticks…

Yesterday was St David’s day. It has no real significance outside of Wales other than, as a Welshman, I know it is synonymous with daffodils. This year has been different because of the dearth of these yellow blooms on view.

I’m not saying that everyone in Lincoln goes around wearing ‘daffs’ on March 1st but they have usually hit the hedgerows by now. As of today they have yet to flower.

An observation would be that they are late due to an unusually hard winter. One more akin to the way winters used to be. However one might ask why they have traditionally been worn on March 1st if winters of old were harsh and daffodils late flowering.

I don’t have the answer and am not really inclined to dig deeper.