‘If I can just get to my days off, then I can get out and go for a walk.’
This is the lie I’ve been telling myself for several days. Each morning, rattling my way to work with an ever-increasing grumble from the driver’s side rear wheel, I’ve been one day closer to the weekend. The myth that keeps up its pretence is that once I reach these magical days off everything else on the to-do list will disappear and I can spend 48 unadulterated hours roaming in the countryside and writing the next nature writing masterpiece. I’ve always been an optimist.
This morning came without much warning. I was asleep, and then I wasn’t. The clock was ticking before my brain had caught up with my slowly focussing vision, and had a chance to re-join the real world in action. It was already starting to slip by, this precious and mysterious entity.
I thought it wouldn’t hurt to read a little before I got up. It would surely inspire me for my own work. I read for longer than I should have, and half the morning was no longer there. There was still plenty of time to go for a walk though, so I gathered up a bundle of orange, reds and black fabric and stuffed my work uniform into the washing machine. It wouldn’t hurt to clean the bathroom before I went out, so I did that too. Cleaning was thirsty work, so the kettle went on, emails were checked, and before I knew it lunchtime had arrived, expectantly.
One cheese sandwich later and rain lashed the windows, blurring my view of the outside world. It seemed like a good time to do a supermarket run. It would be sunny again by the time I got home, and I could finally put on my boots and get into nature.
As I rounded the first corner, my car reminded me it wasn’t happy. The creaking, clunky rattle from the back of the car couldn’t be heard any more. This would have been a good thing, if it wasn’t for the fact that the little Toyota was now roaring in pain as it produced a noise usually reserved for airport runways.
Having run out of cheese in the house, I insisted it got to the shop and back. Then made my jeans soggy as I knelt to inspect the damage in the rain. The exhaust pipe was now dangling in a theatrical manner and clearly needed attention from someone who knew what they were doing. The garage man said I could bring it straight over, so off we went.
As I caught a lift back home, the sun was preparing to go back to bed, as were the starlings flocking over the A351. They swirled and turned back on themselves, before lifting up and away from the roundabout, almost vanishing as they danced against the darkening sky. I’m sure that most of the rush-hour drivers in the drizzle wouldn’t have even noticed.
I will definitely go for a walk tomorrow.
