Stalking the streets of London

‘I’m early,’ I said.

‘You’re cold,’ he said.

‘I am?’ I said.

‘Your cheeks are frozen,’ he said, concern scratched on his face.

 ‘I suppose it’s a cold night.  I only walked from Hackney Central. It took no time at all. Far less than I thought.’

I love walking in London at night. The darkness of a city has a totally different feel to that of the countryside.  Black on black against a backdrop (blackdrop) of tobacco yellow. The occasional scream of neon, of electric blue sirens, of staggering headlights. 

Passing strangers and the surprise as I meet their eyes. Unexpected. Unguarded. Unprepared. And in that second, in that moment before they shut down and flick their eyes away, the glimpse of a life, a soul.  A sliding connection.  I imagine and I wonder. 

My friend finds it horrifying, I think (I know), the way I wander. The careless disregard, as she sees it, for safety.

‘Get a cab,’ she says.  I smile and shake my head. 

‘Don’t get your phone out!’ she hisses.  

'Don't get the night bus,' she says.  'Call me.'  But I like night buses.  

Do this. Don’t do that. Do this. Don’t do that.  It’s said with concern, with love, I know but still…

I can’t live like that.  I can’t live in fear. I can’t always think the worst of people.  I never have.  I hope I never will.  Is it foolish?  Should one always look over one’s shoulder?  I don’t know.  I have prowled so many cities; marched carelessly through  supposedly no-go areas.  I have never felt unsafe.  Maybe that’s the clue. I have always suspected that fear gives off a scent.  If you feel (and so look) like a victim you become attractive to predators.  Something in your body language, something in the way you move is alluring, like the bound of the gazelle, the zigzag of the zebra.  It shouts of the hunt. 

But I stalk. When I was young I taught myself to throw a ring of protection around me, a personal moving sanctuary of safety.  It always served me well.  Now I no longer go through the ritual in my mind’s eye; it’s become a part of me, an automatic cape that swirls around me when I step out into the wider world.  

I'm not entirely stupid.  If I do feel unsafe, if the skin on the back of  my neck, my vestigial hackles, prickle and rise, I pay attention.  There have been some places in the world in which I have let caution guide me.  I have taken the cab. I have slid the bolt. I have touched my cape and noticed the small tears, the threadbare patches - and not pushed my luck.  

But not often.  

The Circle of Stuff

So I went to London, to help my friend move house.  It seemed like such a good idea – I would help her but also lose myself in cleaning and packing, in lugging stuff around and then reversing the process at the other end. Pass the parcel. Pack, unpack. A circle of stuff.

I even took my running kit, thinking I’d jog round the streets and parks of North London. But instead I sort of came undone. I unravelled.  I became more and more unreal.  And, as if to compensate, in a vain desperate attempt to pull me back to the here and now, my body started to hurt…badly. 

I hadn’t quite realized where she was moving to, hadn’t clocked it was nearly back where I used to live, twenty years ago or more. And past and present collided and left me winded. Neither here nor there.  A nobody person lost in nowhen nowhere.

And I was reading this amazing book, by Sandie Dent (don’t bother Googling it – the few agents she tried couldn’t see the gemstone glittering in their darkness), and that just compounded the schism somehow. A woman, around middle-age, goes back to her teenage home and clashes into old friendships, past loves and remembers/dismembers the past.  Dis – the Roman god of the underworld, of course, fell Hades.  And I, such a wan Persephone, always in love with darkness.

‘Do you like pomegranates?’ said my friend as she flung stuff into a trolley at Waitrose.

‘Not any more,’ I replied. Maybe I never did. 

Nothing makes any sense.  Maybe it never did.  Ain't life funny?  

I thought I’d go out, once the boxes were unpacked, once things were transferred to corners, in piles, trying to adjust to their new spaces.  I thought I’d wander down Church Street, maybe have a drink in a café, bob in and out of a few shops, trace my fingers over the gravestones in the cemetery.  But I felt too alien. It would all have felt fake. I walked past my old house, past the places where I lived and loved and laughed and cried.  And none of it felt like it belonged to me.  Now even my memories have turned tail and run run away. You gotta laugh, right?  

So I walked back, to the place that wasn't the place I loved, across the wide space of the park and came across an enclosure of deer.  My memory has no deer.  Were they always there and I didn’t know?  Or maybe I didn’t notice. Maybe their entrapment didn’t bother me then, when I had no fences around me.  Back then, when I thought I wanted to be encircled.

And there was a goat too.  It looked at me incuriously. ‘Wouldn’t you rather have a cliff or a mountain or even a tree on a beach to climb?’ I said.  It turned away.  Either it didn’t care or it knew that it didn't make any difference. Wherever you go, there you are.   

I limped back to the new place.  Worked on through the pain.  Because every muscle and joint in my body was/is hurting.  It feels like I’m being pulled apart at the seams, bone by bone, cell by cell.  I think I would like to crawl away now, into that hole in the forest where hurt animals go to lick their wounds.  It would be…peaceful. Piece fall? 

Me and my ASICS gonna run away...

So, this running thing.  You have to laugh.  I’d just started up and was going great guns when the snow came.  Now, I don’t mind a bit of weather – for pity’s sake we were doing kettlebells by the river in driving hail the other day – but I’m not good on ice.  Instead of striding along in my usual fashion, I morph into little old lady mode, clutching cars and walls as I inch along.  Truly it’s pathetic.  It hurts my pride.  This guy I know shouted on Facebook about how a little snow wasn’t stopping him running and I felt seriously peeved but then I noted that someone else had fallen, running on ice, and had broken her wrist.  There’s gung-ho and there’s plain daft. 

So, my lovely new running shoes fromSportsShoes.com had to sit in their box.  Oh, okay, I put them on and sort of jogged round the house in them cos seriously, they’re rather fab.  I hadn’t realized just how different running shoes are from normal trainers.  They’re slim and snug, they hug my feet like a second skin.  They make me feel all supported and…’held’…and that’s really rather a lovely feeling. 

But not very technical, huh?

In the end, after consultation with my running coach, Trisha, and a good peruse of the SportsShoes.com website (which offers advice on which shoes to pick) I plumped for the ASICS GEL-KAYANO®18.  These usually retail at a whopping £137.99 but were on sale at £89.99.  Still a heck of a lot of money.  ‘I don’t get it,’ I said to Trisha. ‘How come they’re so expensive when you can pick up a running shoe for twenty quid or whatnot?’  And she explained it’s all in the technology. The more expensive the shoe, the better the fit, support and cushioning apparently.  ‘And you really do need the right shoe if you’re going to avoid injury,’ she warned, pointing out that the main reasons so many people injure themselves running (ice aside) are wearing the wrong footwear and not following the right training regime. 

To be very honest, although my ASICS looked lovely, I couldn’t see what justified the price tag.  So I looked a bit further and seems it’s all to do with their GEL™ Cushioning System which apparently “dissipates vertical impact and disperses it into a horizontal plane.” It also has ‘gender specific densities in the midsole’ which sounds a bit…interesting.  I’d often wondered why you got men’s and women’s trainers – I mean, a shoe’s a shoe, right?  Wrong.  Seems that men and women place weight in different areas of the foot when they’re running.  I was also rather taken by the ‘exoskeletal heel counter’ that ‘provides improved support and an improved heel fitting environment for serious runners’.  Get that! Serious runners.  I’m a serious runner?  Like this guy? Hmm...I'm slower but I've got better legs.  

Actually, the Kayano 18 is probably a way more technical shoe than I, as a rank beginner, really truly honestly need.  It’s a bit like when, back last year, I was asked to test out a swimsuit and was fondling the Olympic quality stuff.  I turned to Trisha again. ‘How much should you pay, as a beginner, for a pair of shoes?’ And she reckoned around the forty quid mark would do it – but to make sure you do get the right shoe for your foot. 

Anyhow. Finally the snow and ice pissed off and the road beckoned.  On Sunday, before kettles, four of us took off round the lanes around Dulverton.  My feet felt – wonderful.  Just wonderful.  I wish I could say the same for my lungs but that will come with time.  And I kept the shoes on for kettlebells and they were superb for that too – providing a ton of grip which was really useful given we work out on a pretty rough surface. 

I have to say I’m impressed. I'm also now totally spoiled for cheap shoes - once you've felt that...snugness...it's hard to go back to a lesser holding pattern.  I was also impressed by the service from Sportsshoes.com and by their website which is easy to navigate and offers some great bargains.  Go take a look.

So now there’s not much else to say really.  I’m all kitted up.  The open road stretches before me and I’m off…gonna run, run, run, run away…  Catch me if you can.  J

I wander...wordwise.

Winter bites. Not just around me in the snow and ice but here inside. My thoughts freeze; my heart aches with the fingertouch of frost.  And I cannot write.  Words desert me, they fly away like a skein of geese, high in the cloud-bound sky. Isigfethera. Icy-feathered. I sit and stare at the screen, my eyes glazing.  Bitter in breosthord. Sad in soul. So I get up, swathe myself in blankets and gaze instead at the snowbound pages of my notebook.   No joy.  It’s a no win/wynn situation.  Did you know that wynn means joy or bliss in Old English?

"Ƿenne bruceþ, ðe can ƿeana lyt

sares and sorge and him sylfa hæf

blæd and blysse and eac byrga geniht.

Who uses it knows no pain

sorrow nor anxiety, and he himself has

prosperity and bliss, and also enough shelter."

This time of year, this sense of mood, often sends me back to Anglo-Saxon poetry – to The Seafarer and The Wanderer in particular.  The Seafarer most of all.  Because Old English expresses cold (of bone, of body, of soul) so much better than modern English. Its words bite.

And, even if words don’t love me right now, I still love words.  There is a wonderful blog on Tumblr called otherworldly which unearths, explores and adores words.  And sometimes, when I can’t write, I go there and lose myself in language.  Because so often what we cannot express in our own language can be expressed quite perfectly in another.  And I love that it has a ‘random’ function, allowing you to use it as a quasi-oracle if you will.  And you know how I love oracles.

Check it out. Wander word-wise. And I wonder, is there a word somewhere in this wide world, for wondering if you’re on the verge of giving up - but hoping you're not?  J

 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep...

The woods are beautiful in the snow.  Well, woods are always beautiful but, in snow, they become primeval.  As you crunch the slim tracks through trees you could imagine the wolves were running.  Silent shadows, sliding past out of the corner of your eye.  Your head knows they don’t exist but your heart smiles at their subterfuge.

But really, here and now, there are deer, small herds of hinds. Startled, they stare, wide-eyed, then leap away.  A small dog in pursuit.  But no deerhound he. 

In the fields, by the river, the drifts are deep.  The water runs yet, too fast to freeze.  The gate has been snaggled with barbed wire. A pass-knot.  I unpick, fingers numbing. Patience, caution. Winter is a time of circumspection. No grand gestures now.  We do the small things we need to survive.  Remembering ancestors huddled round the fire.

And small things please.  Outside the kitchen door, a line of little icicles, a delicate fringing.  One pink flower remains. Embraced by ice. 

Back inside, I’ll build a fire.  A tent of twigs.  The ancient campfire.  Outside the snow falls still. Inside the fire keeps the bite of winter tamed. Just.

But before that, I pause. Type this with one dog perched on my lap.  His nose settled between my knees. His body warm. Both of us enjoying the comfort. Wolf turned tame.  The other?  Maybe not so much.  :)

The last flame...

I went to see my friend Caz the other night.  We sat by her wood burner in her snug cosy cabin and I watched her drink the bottle of Cava I’d bought while I sipped a peppermint and licorice tea.  I admire Caz so so much. She works her socks off, lives on a pittance, has brought up her children single-handedly and yet I don’t think I have ever heard her moan. Not once. She lives life to the absolute max, sucks every last bit of juice out of it, rises to every challenge and says ‘Gimme more, more, more.’

She gets cross with me. Tells me off.  Puts me straight.  ‘How can you bear it,’ she said. ‘How can you not be out there, grabbing life by the throat and LIVING it? How can you stand to live this…half life?’

I know what she means. There really are no excuses.  Except.  One is constrained by…money?  Not really. Caz has no spare dosh yet that doesn’t stop her.  No. So, if not money, what? Duty? Love? Fear? Habit?

I dunno. But sometimes I become overwhelmed by the speed at which time passes.  I feel scared that I won’t get to see all the places and people I’d love to see…that I won’t get to do all the things I yearn to do.  Mainly I forget my age and then, suddenly, abruptly I remember. And I recall my mother, at 80,saying sadly, ‘But I don’t feel 80. I feel like a sixteen-year old. This body isn’t me.’

I made the mistake of looking at the camera app on my Chromebook last night, as I sat by the fire.  I truly didn’t recognize the woman who gazed back at me. Who the hell is this raddled crone, I wondered?  And, if you’re not careful, you start to slide. Little things become omens of ill-will.  Your mind picks them up, worries them like a dog with a bone, and makes them monsters.

My ring broke. The little silver snake ring I wear as a talisman. The only one I wear all the time.  Suddenly the metal just…gave in. Split. So now my hands are bare.

And then, late last night, I sat in my study, at my desk, staring at my screen. My scream.  And I could see the fire, three rooms away. The rooms in between were dark and there was just this little flame remaining of the fire that had earlier roared so brave, so warm.  It flickered.  It juddered. 

‘Don’t go out,’ I begged it.  ‘Please don’t you go out.  Not yet. I couldn’t bear it.’

Suddenly it seemed incredibly important that it not fall into ash. Not while I was still here, still awake, still in need of light and warmth and hope. 

But it did.  Of course it did. The house fell dark. Fell silent. And the cold crept in. So I crawled to bed.

I could build a new one, of course. Even if the embers are no longer glowing, I could start afresh. A phoenix from the ashes.  Except…there are no more logs in the woodshed.  The coal bucket is empty. And the snow is falling.

I SO need a plan.    

Plimsoll nostalgia and the right trainers

When I was young we didn’t have fancy trainers for each and every sport. We didn’t even have trainers, come to think of it.  We had plimsolls.  They came in white or black.  Laced or with elastic gubbings at the side. Skinny soles. And the white ones got all grass stained and then you had to use that weird chalky stuff to re-white them (and now I can smell it!).  And that was it. Oh, except that for hockey (shudder, wince) we had a more elongated version with rubber circles on the ankles. These were always black.  Because of the mud I suppose. 

Then one day my pal Jane Wright pitched up for Sports Day with running spikes.  We all stared in stark amazement. 

Funny, huh?  Now there is a trainer for absolutely everything.  Is it really necessary? Is it overkill?  Is it just a canny marketing device?  I seem to spend all the money I don't have on petrol, food and…trainers.  Seriously.  James is growing so fast I can watch him inching up, beanlike. He’s my height now and shows no sign of slowing down. His feet are three sizes bigger than me and he ‘needs’ different shoes for running, rugby, cricket, football and squash.  Aaaaghh. 

Mind you, it does make sense.  According to my fitness instructor friends a large proportion of injuries occur because people are wearing the wrong shoes.  When I started doing Zumba my knees soon got wrecked.  Turned out I was wearing cross trainers with a heavy grip on the sole, so my foot was dragging on the floor, putting strain on the knees.  I got myself a pair of dance shoes and – ta-da! – problem solved.   And at my step class the other night, Debbie warned against using running shoes for step as there simply isn’t the lateral support – you need a good cross-trainer. 

So.  I am seriously looking forward to getting my new running shoes.  After a lot of umming and aaahing, I asked my running coach Trisha for her advice on which to get and she had a look at the way I stand (knock-kneed, flat-footed) and said I’m an overpronator (who knew?) and need something with a fair amount of support.  She suggested these…so these are exactly what I’m getting.  Well, actually, since writing this it turns out that this particular one is out of stock but mine will be very similar (just, er, not black and pink but white and green).

Nice huh? Big thank-you to Sportsshoes.com.  Now, if you don’t have a friendly Trisha, Sportsshoes have a pretty good advice section on their website. Click here to see their video on how to choose the right running shoes.  It’s worth spending a bit to get a decent pair that do the right job.  I’ve learned my lesson of hanging onto trainers until they fall to bits and now I do replace mine as often as I can.  I'll report back on the running shoes once I've had a go.  

And now I’m going off into a total trainer reverie, remembering the bloody huge great things we used to wear in the tail-end of the 80s, purely as a fashion statement.  Bloody hell.  Micro mini-skirt, black opaque tights and HUGE high-top trainers with massive tongues and big fat laces you kept undone.  What the hell were they called?  The brand, I mean. It's driving me potty. Not Nike, not Reebok, not Adidas... aaaaghhh.  Someone put me out of my misery.  

btw, have I spelled plimsoll correctly?  It's looking weird.  And now spelled is looking weird too.  Spelled or spelt? I think I need a nap.  :D