Morning storm

 

I awoke into a damp grey dawn. The windows were dim and vague with fog, and rain fell in big wet drops on the roof, drumming a great noise of falling water. Climbing out of bed, I padded over to one of the windows for a better look. The rain was bucketing down and, as I watched it, a heavy sense of disappointment pressed vice-like on my thoughts. You see, David and I had arranged for our friends to come over for his birthday-lunch later that day and, if the summer-storm continued, we’d need to move the party inside. While that was possible, if we moved all our furniture back against the walls, it would be cramped and less comfortable inside our tiny cottage. So, I crossed my fingers the storm would soon pass.

Watching the beach, situated at the foot of a small hill at the far-end of our back garden, I noticed the drenched pepper-brown sand was littered with black tangles of seaweed and shrouded under grey fog and battering sheets of rain. The trees heaved wildly up and down the coast and the dull green ocean was angry with white foam. From over the horizon, which merged with the sky in a slate-grey haze, low black clouds rolled towards the shore. As they neared, the rain grew heavier and louder with blasts of fork lightening splitting the sky, followed almost immediately by whip cracks and banging earsplitting bursts of thunder. The house shook and grew darker, as the storm passed over, and the windows rattled violently in their frames, while rivers of water gushed down the drain pipes and flooded the flag-stones on the terrace.

The storm raged on for almost an hour and, joining David in the lounge-room, we watched as we drank coffee and wondered at the drama and power of nature. Gradually, however, the pounding of the rain weakened, the deafening noise subsided, and finally the clouds moved away to the east, over the Willunga hills, leaving in their wake a sky scraped clear and blue, a bright yellow sun glittering fresh and white on our cottage, and the sea calmed and sparkling blue and rolling gently to shore with a shush of breaking waves.

Looking at the time, we realised our guests would soon be arriving, so we rushed away to get dressed and finish preparations for lunch on the terrace, grateful that summer storms have a tendency to fade as quickly as they flare.

* * *

Beach Holiday

I spread butter in little pats on crackers, then topped each one with cheese. David and I were preparing a light lunch to eat on the beach, which sparkled enticingly from across the quiet lane that looped in front of our rented holiday-shack.

It was only mid-morning, but already the sun blazed high and hot in the empty blue sky. Clocks and schedules had disappeared, as we luxuriated in the acres of leisure which stretching out before us. Soon we were ready to leave, so collecting together what we needed for the day - our picnic basket, beach-umbrella, bottles of water, sun-hats, towels, novels – we strolled in brightly coloured bathers and bare feet across the road to the stone-steps which led to the beach.

Skipping down the smooth sun-hot rocks, we noticed scores of other holiday-makers had the same idea; they’d sprouted mushroom-like during the morning, under their colourful umbrellas, and were dotting the beach as far as we could see. Their cheerful voices and laughter floated up to us, the words unravelling and evaporating en route.

Sunlight glinted and danced across the marbled water - rippled and swirled in blue, turquoise, green - and further out, sails flicked in and out of the light, while the horizon merged with the sky in a pale blue haze. The ocean boomed with a languid rhythm as it heaved up onto the shore and dragged back out, heaved up again and dragged back out.

We reached the foot of the steps and walked along a short pebbled path between low dunes carpeted in wild grasses and yellow flowers. The worn rocks under our feet massaged and caressed our soles as they shifted and clattered and rolled and collided. Then, emerging onto the hot dazzling sand, we sprinted to the water’s edge to cool our feet and search for somewhere to sit. In long lazy strides, we splashed through ankle-deep water - icy cold and refreshing on our hot legs.

Before long we found a patch of unoccupied beach, so we planted our umbrella to mark our territory, tossed our belongings into the newly formed shade, then turned and ran into the sea: a few leaps across the breaking waves, a few lunges against the incoming surf, and finally a deep determined plunge completely under the water - where blue coolness seeped into every pore and every care was forgotten.

 

                                                                * * *

Bike Ride Home

   A cool evening breeze flows through the grass and laps about my arms and legs and, engrossed in my novel, I suddenly realise how late it is. From the vantage point of the hill-top, where David and I spent most of the day enjoying a picnic and reading, I can see the sun is low in the sky, almost reaching the silver ribbon of ocean on the horizon; night shadows gather round us, and soon it will be dark. So we get to our feet, pack away our possessions - cramming everything into backpacks - then wade through the long dry summer grass to where we’ve left our bikes.

   Soon, we’re spinning on uncontrolled wheels down a gravel track towards the main road. Wind-tears blur my vision, although I can still discern the emerald geometric patterns of vineyards down in the valley; and the lake, which was a glistening blue on the ascent, is now muted grey-green in the hill-shadow cast by the setting sun.

   We speed on - a glittering dangerous thrill pumping through our veins - our tyres whirring over the rocky trail sending dust flying, the wind burning our cheeks and whipping our hair into a chaotic frenzy, and my thin cotton dress flapping wildly around my legs. Soon the dirt track richochets to a stop and becomes tamed into a gently undulating sealed road.

   My heart still racing, I gasp to catch my breath. The road knots and weaves through the verdant landscape, through the lengthening shadows which form pools of blackness, over a small wooden bridge on which our tyres rumble and bump and below which silver water looks up from between the boards. Soon we’re approaching the town where the roads web more tightly into friendly familiar patterns: almost home.

   Streetlights now dot the footpaths and stab intervals of warm light into the night, they draw leaf-patterns on the pale faces of cottages, bungalows, shops. We pedal on, legs aching, feet numb with cold, in a weary slow rhythm until finally we reach a neat cottage – set back from the road, dissolving into the darkness, enclosed within a ribbon of pickets: home.

                                                            * * *

  

 

Beach Drive

We drive in his warm Audi sports-car beside the ocean. Outside, beyond the cold thin glass of the rain blurred window, the beach is sullen and wintry and wild. Neither of us speaks. There is too much to say … and so we have no idea where to begin.

Beyond the wide sloping sand-dunes, tawny-yellow and smudged grey-green with low wind-blown vegetation, the ocean is restless, white-capped and grey, merging on the horizon with the darker grey sky. The rain beats a cold tattoo on the car’s roof and the tension between us insinuates an icy impenetrable barrier. We continue along in this way, on the long black wet road, for what seems an eternity before he pulls off into a gravel parking lot. He shuts down the engine and stares ahead at the stormy sea.

We’re situated near to a harbour, the neat upright forest of masts bobbing to and fro in the rocky water. There are no houses here, only a rusty shed in an otherwise empty lot.

‘So, what now?’ he speaks softly, in his insular misery gazing through the rivers of water gushing down the windscreen.

He waits for me to answer. It would be so easy to say what he wants to hear: That we can sort out our problems. That we just need to try a little harder; find more time to be together. That would cheer him up, I know. That would make him happy in this moment. But then what? More years of being wrong for each other, trying to change but realising we shouldn’t need to.

Suddenly, he turns to me, his blue eyes blazing, intent, desperate: ‘Maybe we could get married.’

I can’t believe what he’s saying. The shock of his words makes the answer to our dilemma crystal clear:

‘No,’ I say, ‘It’s too late.’

‘But -’

‘We need to break up,’ I say as gently as I can. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you like this.’

Tears stream down his face and I realise he knows I’m right. He has no argument and we’ve come to this gradually, inevitably, sadly. All endings are sad – a type of death – but they’re necessary for the start of anything new.

He starts the engine, swings the car into reverse, and roars back in the rain. The windscreen wipers cut an arch in the drops on the glass, ticking away what time we have left together.

* * *

The Fair

 

People stream towards the entrance in knots, ravelling at the ticket booth then flowing easily again once through. The grounds are sparsely populated, when the five of us arrive mid-morning on this warm September Sunday; although, by midday we know the place will be packed and busy, filled with swarming, massing crowds. But for now, there’s a slower more peaceful tempo: the walkways and lawns mostly empty, the show-rides without queues, the day just waking up and getting started.

As is our tradition, my four teenage children and I stroll first towards our favourite stalls where we’ll buy hot coffee and cinnamon donuts: our show-day breakfast. Once that’s done, we’ll find somewhere to sit and plan out our day’s activities, or at least where we’ll start. But there’s no rush. So we meander along the network of pathways which wind between side-show booths, food-stalls, face-painting tents, farm produce exhibits; through pools of exotic appetising aromas, cheerful carnival music, glitter, movement, vibrant colours. We plunge in and out of the cool shade cast by the scattered gum-trees flanking the paths; they stand tall and majestic, so typically Australian, startlingly beautiful against the bold bright sky beyond their dappled olive branches.

Soon we’ve got our drinks and food and we’re sitting at a table on a raised platform which looks out across long green lawns at the heart of the showgrounds. The coffee is rich and invigorating, and the donuts coat our fingers and faces in sugar. We sit back in our white plastic chairs at our white plastic table and this is exactly where we all want to be today. Simply enjoying ourselves.

                                                                                     *

Picnic on a summer evening

He steers the motorbike off the long winding country-road and we come to rest on crunching gravel. The engine cuts off and we remove our helmets. Silence. The vast open countryside is so quiet it’s almost tangible, pushing in on us as it simultaneously draws us out so we become part of the open empty landscape. Intermittently, sounds from chirping crickets and bleating sheep scrape into the silence and set a slow syncopated rhythm for the evening, peaceful, sedating, dulling our thoughts, our worries, our plans … and leaving us to exist only in the present.

We stroll across the road towards a steep hill, which is now in silhouette against the blazing colours of a summer sunset: orange, pink, yellow. From behind us, from far out across the darkening paddocks - consumed in the lengthening black shadows and shrouded under a flowing charcoal-coloured tide of night-sky - a cool breeze sweeps in and over us. Refreshing. Soothing. It caresses our weary limbs like silk. It whispers secretively through the grass and rustles leaves on branches high in the trees. It drives out the stifling stagnant air of the hot January day, and carries with it the pungent aromas of earth, wheat, eucalypts, livestock.

Arriving at the wire fence, which encloses the paddocks at the foot of the hill, we climb through to begin our ascent. With picnic basket and rug under our arms, we traipse up the rutted dirt path toward the summit. The view on the way is breathtaking: behind us, a patchwork of dark sleeping paddocks under a sprinkling of stars; ahead, a retreating dusk sky awash with bright colour. We reach the top and catch our breath. A refreshing breeze greets us and we’re just in time to watch the last wedge of sun sink below the ocean out on the horizon.

We toss our blanket over the bristly grass and set out our picnic tea. We’ll stay here under the stars and the moon and the wide open sky discussing the universe and whatever we like until very late. We’re in no rush.

                                                                               * * *

 

 

Mistakes

 

I stand at Joe’s front door. It’s a ground-level flat in the western suburbs of Adelaide. A quiet working-class area comprising small brick homes, low-rise apartment-blocks and light industry. I’ve come to buy a text book he’s advertised on a noticeboard at Uni. Footsteps herald his arrival and I remind myself of the book title and price.

The door opens and a gaunt dishevelled figure looks down at me. He’s not what I expect. Speaking on the phone a few days earlier, I’d imagined a lively young academic with an air of sophistication. After all, he’s selling a Fourth Year Medical book: Grey’s Anatomy. But the reality is jolting: a surly-looking man, early 40’s, receding dark hair, grubby denim jeans under a worn black windcheater, glaring at me silently, unsmiling, blue eyes piercing.

‘I’m Amy,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘We spoke on the phone. I’m here to buy the book.’

His expression softens a little, he steps back and, opening the door widely, he gestures for me to enter. ‘Right,’ his voice is deep and gravelly - different from how I remembered on the phone. ‘Come in, then.’

Again, I’m confused. I thought I’d stay here on the porch and I’d just pay outside. Why would I need to go into his flat? But ... I don’t want to be rude and I desperately need the book … exams are coming and I’ve got next to no money - while the price he’s asking is a steal. Almost too good to be true. Seriously.

So, I step towards the entrance and peer into the gloom, my eyes are yet to adjust to the dark: The flat is a mess and a horrible stench of rubbish and mouldy furniture hits me. As I move through the doorway, I hear a voice in my head saying: This isn’t right. Something’s off. Leave! Impatiently, I silence the voice.

‘I’ll get the book,’ he says, shutting the front-door behind me before disappearing through another door. As I wait, I can hear noises – scraping sounds, like furniture being moved around - from other rooms. I realise the man is not alone. Someone else, maybe more than one, is here with him. Forget the book, the voice in my head insists. It’s not worth it. I realise maybe it isn’t worth it – it’s too weird - and I decide to leave.

Turning, I move towards the front door but the handle is like nothing I’ve seen before. It appears to be hand-made. I have no idea how to open it ... and realise maybe it’s been locked. Before I can move, footsteps march briskly along wooden floorboards towards me, and two men enter the room.

One is the man I met at the door, but the other is new. He’s slightly shorter than the first, mid-30’s, blonde, smiling and better dressed than his companion. He reaches into his pocket and, as he watches me intently he struggles to extract something. I step back, the hair on my neck bristles and my heart pounds deafeningly in my ears. I feel faint … and I can’t think. My thoughts are confused, scattered. It’s like I’m an observer – outside my body - watching events unfold from a distance.

The shorter man struggles with the object for a few moments longer then, with a violent tug, he yanks out a small, black gadget which he points, with an extended arm, towards me.

Unable to catch my breath, jaw gaping, my gaze shifts down to the dark item in his hand: it’s black, shiny, rectangular, the size of a novel? I’m confused … It is a novel. What?! He gestures for me to take it from him, and when I do I read the title: Grey Anatomy: winter poems.

‘You’re here for this?’ the voice is the one from the phone. ‘They’re my own poems. I’ve sold a few copies to the Medical students. No idea why they like them so much. But that’s why I’ve been advertising up at the Medical School.’

Darn! No wonder Med students buy them ... they think it’s the cheapest copy of Grey’s Anatomy they’ve ever seen! I look around again at the shabby flat – and it makes sense: he’s a poet. He suffers for his art. His face is so full of pride and happiness, watching me as I turn the volume over in my hands. I imagine his delight and relief in selling a few more copies of his book. His poems. His words … His life’s purpose.

I reach into my bag, find the money and pay him. ‘Thanks,’ I say, forcing a smile again.‘Thank you ... I’m sure I’ll enjoy reading this.’

I leave and, in my head, I’m kicking myself: At least I’m not dead, I reflect, that was all pretty weird and creepy but … all my money is now gone, I’ve got no copy of Grey’s Anatomy and no time to find another one ... and … quite possibly I’ll now fail my exams. Shaking my head, I consider an option might be to study in the Uni library and borrow a Reserve copy of the book. But … Darn it!

I drag my feet as I trudge back to my car. So disappointed. So stupid to have misread … misunderstood the Ad ... but who sells poetry books to Med students?!

I turn to look back at the flat and realise the blonde poet is on the porch smiling at me. He waves and I can’t help noticing the look of happiness ... and … enthusiastic encouragement on his face. I wave back and hold his poetry book in the air, nodding and smiling my thanks again.

OK, maybe some things work out for the best, I reflect. Maybe, one day I’ll read his poems and like them. Who knows. Maybe his writing will spark some enthusiasm for the Art of Language in me and one day I too will want to write something. Or … maybe it’s not about me at all. Maybe this is about him. The poet. Maybe he’s meant to keep writing – not give up yet – success lies just ahead – waiting for him - and with the sale of a few of his books, he’ll continue pursuing his goals.

In the end, I have no idea why stuff happens - but today I bought his book and I realise now that I’m pleased I did – even if only to see the lovely expression on his face. Totally worth it. I lift my head and skip ahead to my car, swinging the arm that carries my new poetry book.

Who knows - maybe there are no mistakes in the larger plans of the universe and life.

* * *

Saturday Night

 

My feet click clack on the Mall pavers as I race, as quickly as my stiletto heels will allow, to meet my two Uni girlfriends. The crisp chilly Saturday night air burns my cheeks and gnaws into my aching fingers, so I picked up the pace in an attempt to shake off the cold.

I follow a chain of golden orb street-lights dotting my path, warm and bright against the hard black edges of darkness, finally arriving at our designated meeting spot: the Mall Pigeon, a chrome stylised bird eight feet high.

My friends are already there and deep in conversation when I arrive, so I slow my pace to catch my breath. I’m so unfit these days. Too much studying and too little anything else.

We’re all 18 and half way through our First year of a Civil Engineering degree. For me, it wasn’t that I was so fascinated by the thought of building stuff; it was more that I’d heard too many stories of pointless degrees where there was no demand and no jobs. At least with Engineering, there was a chance I could purchase a house and pay my bills. Basically, grow up and leave home. Possibly my friends felt the same, but it was a discussion we never had. Whatever the reasons, this was our life now.

I watched my friends and tried to imagine seeing them for the first time: Judy, my high school friend and best friend, was someone you probably wouldn’t remember if you met her for the second time. She’s pretty, tall, blond, neat features but nothing that sets her apart from other young girls in either a beautiful way or an unattractive way. She’s a sunny daisy in a field of daisies where only the occasional bold crimson rose or the unsightly sprawling weeds are set apart and draw attention.

Gayle personifies the word sporty. Whatever the occasion, her style of dress, while appropriate, looks like it would also be equally suited to a tennis court or a session at the gym. She is glowing health and vitality. Medium height and build, shoulder length honey-blond hair, large green eyes, bronzed skin, long legs, and everything she does is fast with a spring in her step.

I join them and they suddenly notice me, jumping in surprise as I greet them with a cheery, ‘Let’s get going you lot! Where to first’.

We look at each other and smile. It’ll be the usual, to start the night. We chorus: ‘To the Austral Pub, of course.’ A sort of in-joke to even ask the question. The Austral is where our friends start their nights out. It’s a great place to shake off the study books and stresses and switch over to Relaxed-night-out mode. To chill.

Contemplations: October 8 2023 The Wrong Path

 

A shrill bleeping drags me into consciousness; it blasts into the black quicksand of my dreams and pulls me up into the harsh antiseptic glare of my life - filled with deadlines, demands, pressures, goals that I’m not certain I even want. I’m so rushed, overworked, I don’t know how I even got to this point. Were the decisions mine? Were they simply what I thought was expected of me? And, if so, expected by whom?

Mechanically I dress, grab my bag, my stethoscope, an apple to eat in the car on the way to the hospital. I don’t feel human. I’ve forgotten how to enjoy myself. My life has become an endless list of duties and none seem meaningful. I’m now some kind of android. Mechanical. Emotionally numb. A cog in the industrial machine, stretched taut against a horizon over which my endlessly ambitions recede. And deep down I know the sad truth: I don’t really want to reach the goals on this road. They bore me, stress me, don’t resonate with who I am (not that I’m sure who that is yet) and I hate them. I’m wasting my time and my youth. I'm throwing my life away. I know it. I wonder how many more years I’ll continue on this path before I have the courage to leave.

I continue on, driving through the rain which billows down in rattling sheets over the dark, wet roads. My windscreen wipers cut an arch in the droplets over the glass, relentlessly ticking away time. They mock me. Tick, tick, clip, clip, drip, drip. My youth is being cut away by time; it drips from the car and washes into the gutters, disappearing in my rear mirror. And on I go, following the beam of light cast by the headlights, which forge a warm glowing tunnel through the cold July mist. And, along the banks of this gushing river of lights, I admire the graceful dark limbs of barren winter trees reaching to the heavens. They soften the harshness of the artificial concrete and metal landscape, creating a calming natural oasis.

Meanwhile, traffic swells and swirls in sweeping currents all around. These are my fellow life-travellers: I wonder, in this moment, if any of them are on a wrong road like me? If so, do they know it? Can they change? Will they have the courage to jump? Will I? Yet, maybe there are no ‘wrong’ roads. Maybe even the detours of life - off the major freeways which carry us most expeditiously to our hoped for destinations – are right and necessary to equip us with skills we’ll only understand later. Skills which will help us navigate and stay afloat during life’s storms, when waters become treacherous and difficult. Then it will all make sense. I hope so.

*

(PS: In my life, years later I was glad of those difficult Hospital Registrar years, because they gave me the tools needed to help my daughter recover from an incredibly severe case of Anorexia Nervosa - from which she suffered for ten years, with five as an in-patient).

* * *

Contemplations: October 6 2023

 

Hospital sleeping quarters.

I place my stethoscope and pager on the night stand. Check the phone receiver is on the hook. Carefully place my watch beside the phone; I’ll need to put it on if I’m called to see a patient during the night. Weariness sets in, comforting and soothing as a warm bath. It seeps into my mind and body, exhausted after rushing, thinking, stressing over the last 20 hours of my shift. Weariness caresses me, soaks my aching muscles, quietens my racing thoughts, ebbs and ebbs and floods and drowns and carries me deep into back oblivion. And in this tranquil darkness I am gone, resting, restoring, peaceful.

* * *

Days of our Lives:

 Some days are like terrible storms, with ferocious winds screaming down alleyways, ripping roofs from buildings, dragging giant trees out by their roots, and filling the world with danger, destruction, death; those are the days when we fail exams, when we lose friends and loved ones, when our trust and faith are betrayed. 

 Some days are bleak and cold, with heavy fog and darkness shrouding the world around us, obscuring our way forward, isolating us from others; those are the days when we feel completely bored in our job, when the drudgery and duty of life seems never-ending, when we feel lonely, abandoned, forgotten by friends and colleagues. 

 But there are days when the sun shines so brightly, when the sky is scraped clear and blue, when spring flowers fill the air with pungent fragrances and warm breezes caress our skin and carry with them the happy sounds of children playing, music, and laughter. Those are the days when we’re excited and triumphant in our work projects, when our friends and family gather near to have fun and support us, when life surprises us with amazing twists and turns we could never have dreamed possible. 

 During the days of our lives, we can only appreciate the sunshine if we we’ve also experienced the storms and darkness. The shadows are as important as the light – and they bring with them the lessons that give us wisdom. But the light is only ever days away, waiting on our calendars to warm our hearts, shine our way forward, and give us hope to carry on.

* * *

An Evening Festival.

We stroll along the sinuous gravel path, on our way to the festival. The lake is black-glass beside us, with glimmering white orbs of light mirroring the electric lanterns dotting the park. A cool breeze rustles the few remaining leaves clinging to otherwise barren branches, sending some tumbling to the ground and scattering them like confetti across the dark lawns and onto the water. A solitary row boat, moored near a small jetty, rocks to and fro, sleeping with the rest of the gardens after a long day. In waves of sound, muted voices and laughter reach us and beckon us forward. These sounds of revelry are accompanied by mouth-watering aromas of cooking meat, buttered popcorn, and donuts - reminding us that it’s after six o’clock and we haven’t yet had tea. We sally forth towards the city lights, an ersatz dawn superimposed with flashing neon coloured lights and cheerful music from a jazz band, setting a festive tone and soundtrack for the evening. We leave the park, after crossing a pretty stone bridge nested amongst silhouetted tree sculptures, which reach up to the starblown sky, and we join the crowds on the footpath.

The contrast between city and park could not be more stark; but to know one allows appreciation of the other.

* * *

Contemplations: October 5 2023

 

Contemplations: October 5^th 2023

Days of Sunshine

1. I think there are times, in the sunshine-and-darkness of life, when it seems that life is purely sunshine, when memories of darker times evaporate in the brightness and warmth of shining days. That’s how it felt recently, when my family and I picnicked in the Mt Lofty Ranges. With a basket of sandwiches and cakes carried on my arm, a thermos of hot coffee and bottles of cold lemonade and coke juggled by the others, along with a large picnic rug - we strolled laughing and talking as we wandered in the shade under a dense leafy canopy, over a verdant flowered grass-carpet. In that moment, it felt like we’d wandered onto a stage set for the final scene of a drama - the happily-ever-after denouement, when the climax of problems are over and all is finally right with the world; our words were the script of triumphant heroes enjoying peace and happiness after a long difficult journey. It was as if the words of poets, the songs of musicians, the dazzling colours of artists were conjured all at once into our own lives, and we remembered that life can be beautiful. Despite all the difficulties and dramas - sometimes life is simply beautiful.

* * *

Christmas traditions

2. All cultures have their traditional celebrations; including the West. But, some of these celebrations are hewn from the very best of human principles; especially Christmas. Not simply the modern version of this celebration ... but behind all the expensive gifts, behind the tinsel and decorations, behind the parties and banquet feasts – there’s a deeper purpose and meaning to each of these activities, that is: supporting and caring for those in need; remembering peace and goodwill to our fellow men; finding joy and love even in the coldest, darkest and most difficult days of our lives (Christmas is traditionally and symbolically celebrated just after the winter solstice).

Some traditions, including Christmas, continue over millennia because our ancestors recognised their inherent value and the truth of which they remind to us.

* * *

A cold night in the city

3. Striding and striding along North Terrace, my feet click, clack on the grey tendrils of pavement. Alone. Darkness fills the wintry night, punctuated at intervals by cones of warm creamy light streaming from the streetlights high above, up among the black skeletal branches of oaks. Cars zoom by in clusters, dammed and released by distant traffic lights, streaming rivulets of white and red light in both directions at my side. A cold wind rustles leaves in the gutter; it whips my hair and face like a splash of icy water. I sally forth. Alone. Mindful of being alone in this wintry scene. I pass small clusters of people, remnants of the city’s workday crowds; they huddle in small groups, talking in low inaudible voices which quickly dissolve into the night. Or they scatter here and there, like billiard balls on an inky-grey pool-table … click clack they march away, disappearing into black pockets of darkness.

Cold gnaws at my finger tips, and I sink my gloved hands deep into my coat pockets. I pull my scarf up high on my neck. I’m tired. I want to go home to my warm house, to my brightly lit study, to my delicious books and the internet. But I can’t. My 14 year old son is playing piano at the University Conservatorium and I must wait for him for two hours. I’ll buy him a cake, to eat after his jazz band rehearsal, to enjoy on the ride home - as we chat about the our day, life, the universe, everything - in the comfort of my warm car.

But that will be some time from now. For now, I’ll do what I do every Tuesday night: I’ll find a cafe to drink coffee and sit at a table surrounded by chatting, laughing strangers enjoying their night out; I’ll read my newspaper, then start another novel; and as the minutes then hours tick by, I’ll imagine my son, so happy creating music with his band, out beyond the maze of city streets.

* * *