Tonight I am in London, having traveled from Glasgow this morning. I always find myself wondering if it really would be simpler to drive, seeing as the entire journey from leaving my flat to arriving at my friend's place in the city takes roughly seven hours, and I could drive it in six. But that's not taking into account the fees for bringing a car into the city, not to mention the walking I would have missed out on!!
I walked a lot today, but it is my least favourite of all walking. It goes in fits and spurts. From the house to the car...sit. From car to checkin queue (which, despite my printing my own boarding pass, saves nobody any time, me or the airline), then stand and do the queue shuffle. One step forward, one half-step, almost another, wait, wait....Then it's on to security (more shuffling) and a dander through the shops and food places, then sitting at the gate. Now the slow shuffle to get on (with the laughable precaution of placing my two bags into one for thirty seconds, then separating them as soon as I pass check in), to board, to unboard (deboard?), to gain luggage, and finally a proper walk to the train station....and more waiting. I could go on (train to tube, tube station to tube station, tube to flat), but you get the drift. I hardly feel like I had a proper walk, and yet the backpack and case combination adds a reckless gym element to my efforts today. I make it safely to my destination and rejoice in a cup of green tea and my current book, Blue Blood (an excellent read, memoirs of a NYPD cop named Eddie Conlon). One of my 2011 resolutions (why put it off?) is to read no repeat books. It may be a tough one, but I need to broaden my mind. Some books in my library I have read quite literally 8 or 10 times over.
London is its usual fascinating blend of humanity and steel. Buildings everywhere, and the queue of people walking off the plane as well as those on the train are all in various shades of black. I don't understand why, in a nation and city where it gets dark ridiculously early in the winter, and the bitter cold weather can be discouraging before you even leave the house, everyone insists on dressing as though they're off to another funeral each morning. Makes me all the more determined to pursue and enjoy work that I love, and that draws out my talents.
At any rate, the splashes of "story" appear everywhere. A Spanish couple chatter incessantly next to me, the entire way from Stansted to Tottenham Hale. I don't think the woman draws breath once. A man goes running down the stairs brandishing a bouquet of white roses, looking around wildly for...what? Who? The woman next to me on the tube sits with a beautiful bouquet in her hands, looking sad and miserable. Is she giving them or did she receive them? She sees me looking over and gets off at the next stop. A young girl comes running up as the doors are closing, leaps in, and then looks back to see her two friends on the other side of the glass. "get off at the next station!!" one shouts, laughing, and the girl on the train with me turns her head, face scarlet with embarrassment and a little smile for the humour of it.
It's all stories that I see in various phases but never see the end of. Did the man catch his train? Who were the lady's flowers for? Where were the young girls going and did they laugh all night at their friend's error? But I'm getting cold and my destination and hot cup of tea await, so I set aside my wonderings and arrive.
Walk length: 1 hour
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