Procrastinating again...

My greatest anxiety is summed up in one word.  I neither have to say the word nor think of the word,  but it exists in everything I never do; tomorrow.

With a leap out of bed, eyelids peeling open as the morning light stings my sleepy eyes, I crawl  across the landing to the bathroom; my mind wanders excitedly.  “

Oh! I know, the bedroom, I can do the bedroom.  I can turn the bedroom into the studio I have been designing for the past 2 years.” 

As I sit in the loo, I can’t be arsed to stand this early in the morning, thoughts are fermenting and reminding me of other tasks I never do. 

“The gate, I need to do the gate.  I have the wood, the screws, the tools; I’ll do the gate and I can then do the bedroom...”

I saunter back to the bedroom to toss my clothes on that I wore yesterday; they still have life in them.  I reach the foot of the stairs and see the three lengths of skirting board I purchased 6 months ago. 

“Shit, that really needs doing, and the room would look really class when it is finished; i'll do the skirting boards after I have had a cup of coffee, well,  after the neighbours have woken up.”

Leather recliner extended. Feet up. Coffee made.  I look out the living room window, as I do every Saturday morning. 

“That furniture I threw out 4 months really needs to go to the tip, its just a rotting soggy eye soar, i'm sure it will fit in the rear of the car; so much room will be available once its gone.”

It's really quiet in the living room, the wife is still sleeping.  However, my allergy ridden Springer is driving me insane with her whining and deep nasal breathing as her gnawing exacerbates her histamine production which in turn intensifies her gnawing.  I hear myself actually shouting at her even though it's not her fault. 

            "Jennifer?  I could go visit Jennifer for a coffee if she's up.” 

Messenger says she is so I make my way down the road to see her.  I endure my ritual mauling from her dog while my ear drums buckle with the high pitch barking as she leaps up and down my body.  Coffee made, kids greeted and silence restored. 

Our usual conversation always includes everything that we haven't done and how we are going to work really hard to undo the procrastination that is forever holding us back.  This includes everything I intend to do today; bedroom, gate, skirting and remove furniture.  She confirms her itinerary of things not done but needs doing, and we demolish a second mug of prime home made caffeine. 

“Oh my god the smell is so inviting.  Another?”

Time to go home and do...

I return home and insist that a cup of coffee must be the prequal to any task attempts today.  I look at the sky for any clues of good or bad weather that could potentially hamper my ability to carry out my tasks, today.

“Fancy coming shopping with me?” suddenly falls out of Lisa’s mouth.  It’s like a permission to not task. This question echoes in my ears  like a caveat, telling me to beware.  I can go shopping if I want, however, this may have an impact on my available time to do tasks.  I can't blame Lisa for not doing tasks because I had a choice.  I agree to shop, but, I need a coffee before I leave the house.

Shopping done and we are home. Five or six bags of shopping will need putting away before things melt, or the dog tries to eat what she can steal.  I offer to help pack this away absorbing more task time, knowing this does not motivate me to move faster.  Packing done, bags folded and stored for next time.  All that shopping and packing deserves a coffee and maybe a little snack, cheese on toast or a lovely crumpet packed with dripping melted Irish butter; heavenly.

Leather recliner extended. Feet up. Coffee made. Crumpets melting.  It's now 13:30 pm and Lisa makes the biggest mistake in the life of a procrastinator trying desperately to control his impulses to dodge his tasks until tomorrow; She turns the TV on and glides through the channel list until something interesting catches our eyes. 

My indulgence in this is inevitable and, in a sense, pandering to my inner need to deter my tasks until tomorrow.  As we both want and need these tasks completing, Lisa’s act of putting the TV on is giving permission to avert all responsibilities for the remainder of the day. 

With my feet up I know that I have failed yet again, until tomorrow.  I wish I could have more control over that heavy blanket that continually covers and hides away the things I need to do.  I have some days when I feel like a precrastinator.  I wake and start my tasks with vigor and none stop, with the intention to complete every task to the end.  However, this event is very very far and few between.

I am a procrastinator and always will be.  There is no escaping this nor is there a means to turn this off.  I may find little nuggets of help on the internet, a todo list, a rota, a reminder etc.  These nuggets are all fine providing I am able to complete the task of filling them in and planning ahead.  Rid me of the TV, the phone, the tablet or the laptop and I may be one step closer to becoming taskless within a day.

Where’s that coffee?

New Year Day revisited

The journey to Lake Vyrnwy was nothing out of the ordinary, in fact it was pretty quiet and easy going; but then it was New Years day. There are not many people prepared to travel over a hundred miles in the freezing winter to eat their New Year dinner.

The country side is a different picture during the winter, with minimum foliage and skinny branches poking out of frozen tree trunks in the middle of frost covered fields. The cattle and sheep were still there chomping on whatever grass they could find. This was the picture for the majority of our journey until we entered the B4393, an eleven and a quarter mile road that encompassed Lake Vyrnwy.

We drove around the lake looking for somewhere to stop to have a well earned hot drink and snack. We were well prepared with flasks, sandwiches, crisps and chocolate bars. We had three cars and we managed to squeeze them all on to the little lay-by.

The scenery was beautiful with every tree and shrub encrusted in a white frosted residue; it was like a colossal winter cake coated with icing sugar; not an ounce of green was missed.
As I was offering drinks and snacks to the rest of the party I spotted a red breasted Robin hopping about between the three cars. Robins are quite friendly birds so it was pretty easy to take a couple of photos before it disappeared, taking with it whatever crumbs it could fit into its beak.

The air was clean and cold with a typical woodland smell. The odour from the fungi and rotting wood was ever present because the lake was surrounded by woodland on both sides of the road. I could hear chirping and scratching about in the trees but couldn’t spot anything but a solitary hungry Robin.

We all spotted and headed towards the arched bridge that stretched out across this man made lake. The lake was built over a century ago when the Valley of Vyrnwy looked incredibly different. In 1881 a company from Liverpool started work on the arched dam, that we call a bridge, to provide fresh water for their city. They built a 70 mile pipeline that stretched from the lake to finish at Liverpool.

By purchasing 24,000 acres of the surrounding land they were not only able to control the purity of the water; they were also able to maintain the scenic beauty of the area. In the building process they even had to relocate an entire village; Llanwddyn. It took two years to fill the lake with water. However, the water didn’t manage to reach Liverpool unit 10 years later in 1891.
The water on the left of the dam was very tranquil and moving gradually toward the arches, however, it spewed ferociously out of the dam the right side. Not all the outlets were open, adding pressure to the ones that were. The noise created by thousands of tons of gushing water travelling at about 80 miles an hour is very impressive; like a million fire hoses trying to reach the top of a burning building; all at once.

If you stand in the middle of the road and look down the centre of the bridge it is pretty impressive. There are large pillars strategically placed to be able to support the arches and withstand the force of the water as it squeezes its way through the inlets.
The lake itself is vast and it is difficult to comprehend that it was built, by hand, over one hundred years ago. From the centre of the bridge the entire lake is captured in a 360 degree view, with white coated trees creating a natural boundary and a home for the local wild life. Approximately 16,000 acres is entrusted to the RSPB as a nature reserve. If you love the countryside, great views and wild life, Lake Vyrnwy is a delightful place to visit where tranquillity is inherent.

Hidden alongside the Lake is a wonderful sculpture park where characters suddenly appear in front of your eyes. Every September, sculptors from Britain and around the globe come together to carve these figures for our entertainment. The Sculpture Park is home to approximately 60 carvings containing works from as far afield as Australia, England, Estonia, Finland, Latvia, Lithuania, Norway, Russia, Sweden, Ukraine and Wales.

Lake Vyrnwy is host to the largest modern collection of global sculpture in Wales. As we walked along the path that ran through the park the sound of cascading water pounding the large reservoir beneath was ever present. There is a little overflow stream coming from the dam that runs slowly and silently through the park; it is just wide enough to leap across, if you are adventurous and young enough to have a go.

The frozen grass sounded crispy as we walked over it. Mini water falls graced the banks allowing small steady trickles to fall off the icicles and disappear under the footpath. Little pools of water were completely frozen, popping open as we pressed our boots into them.
Although we were having a lovely time here, it was time to move on to Llanbeder where we agreed to have our New Year dinner. After a short drive around the Lake looking for the best way out we opted for a single track lane that cuts through the Mid Wales countryside, what a journey we were about to take.

The MountainsWe turned off the B4393 and headed skyward on a single track mountain road. The mist became dense with every five hundred yards we climbed. We had reached a point where we could only see a couple of yards ahead. With a treacherous drop on the passenger side this was becoming an adventurous drive through a precarious mountain path. Lisa, my wife, didn’t share my enthusiasm and excitement; we were in the middle of nowhere, with no map, on a road just wide enough to fit our cars.

The temperature outside had now reached minus eight and visibility was greatly reduced. The water that had trickled down the hillside previously had covered the road ahead, turning it into a slab of ice approximately two car lengths. It was too dangerous to reverse back with the visibility so poor so we had only one option left; we were about to go skating.
I drove the car forward gingerly looking at the drop on my left as I approached the lab of ice. I decided to accelerate hoping that my momentum would thrust me across without sliding off the edge into the abyss below. I felt the rear of the car slide toward the edge, regaining its grip as it left the icy surface and met with the tarmac. I slowed down so I could observe the remaining two cars, hoping they have the same fortune as me. They all crossed safely.

We continued along the path meeting sheep as they casually strolled across the road ahead. This is a very isolated mountain track where the local farm animals and other wild life would not meet many vehicles. The sheep showed no fear as they stood in the centre of the road staring at us with a look that said; “who are you and why are you on my road”.

The track ran through huge woodlands that were part of the sloping mountainside. The trees were empty, stripped of all character by the autumn blast. With no leaves to shelter beneath or fruit for the wild life to eat; the trees had become semi redundant for the winter. It was evident that the local spiders were making good use of the branches, showing off their architectural skills by weaving very elaborate webs. The mildew had frozen on the webs creating an elaborate string of jewels that hung from tree after tree.

Smallholdings were dotted along the track allowing the wild fowl to roam freely throughout the land. This land is hidden deep in welsh mountain territory; the properties were very secluded and solitary with a peaceful atmosphere that was attributed to the echoic tranquillity of mountain life.

We continued along this track for four miles meeting and overcoming the same icy perils. The serenity of this concealed mountain life remained with us for the entire four miles. There was a sense of natural existence along the track where everything moved at its own pace. The hustle and bustle of urban or city life was never present; I could have stayed here for ever.
We left the frozen mountains into a blaze of sunshine. Not a single cloud graced the deep blue sky. It was like passing through a time warp from freezing winter cold and white frosted woodlands to sunny Ibiza. The mountains in the distance were as clear as the sheep in the field; no haze, just clarity.

The peak of Cader Idris was visible as we continued along the winding roads that passed through the little village of Dolgellau. We didn’t stop to take in the view as we were all looking forward to playing on the beach at Barmouth; freezing cold or not, we are going to have fun.
We arrived at the Barmouth promenade looking for car parking spaces. As we were the only idiots stupid enough to spend New Year day on the freezing welsh coast, parking was not an issue. We chose the main car park that sat beneath the Panorama Walk.
As we got out of our cars we all commented on the extraordinary weather and could not associate it with the time of the year. If it wasn’t for the strong wind and the freezing chill factor this scene could have described Malta in June. The typical seaside smell was still there however, the atmosphere was quite different.

As I looked along the beach towards the Snowdonia range, where we had just come from, it felt a little surreal. With the sun blazing high above and clear blue sky that filled every inch of my peripheral view, where ever I looked, I half expected hundreds of holiday makers to rise from their bathing towels. We were the only holiday makers that day.

We wrote Wolverhampton in the sand as large as we could and played football until the wind drove the ball into ocean; we lost it forever. We dug about in the sand looking for different shells to take back home, or anything unusual that had been washed ashore. The kids splashed in the little puddles and the adults discussed their appreciation for this spectacular, but rare, winter scene.

After playing stunt man, diving over the promenade wall into the sand below, we decided it was time to move on. This had been a fantastic few hours on the beach. Although it was freezing and windy, we achieved just as much today as we would on a mid summer day, having just as much fun; I personally had more.

We joined the A496 out of Barmouth and headed towards Llanbedr. This was a 7.5 mile coastal journey that passed through smaller villages, such as Llanaber, Talybont and Coed Ystumgwern; now that’s a mouth full. Unlike the mountain track there were no icy roads or frosty foliage to remind us of winter.

By now everyone in the car was exhausted and hungry. We put up with the usual mantra from the kids, “are we there yet?” as they had run themselves out on the beach and were in need of food. My stomach was performing somersaults and growling like a hungry lion. Lisa (my wife) was relaxed with arms folded, watching the coastal view passing her by.

Within fifteen minutes we were on the outskirts of Llanbedr passing by woodland on our right called Gruffydd price. The trees were quite bare which exposed the hidden part of the woodland we don’t usually see from the roadside. A little further, 500 feet or so, we passed another much smaller wood on our left, again stripped of foliage.

After crossing a small bridge spanning the local river and taking an immediate right turn we were at out destination; The Victoria Inn, Llandedr. The kids perked up in the back of the car asking each other what they might eat for dinner. I had chosen salmon; out of past experience. I had eaten here during the summer and had the best piece of fresh salmon I have ever tasted.
After introducing ourselves we were led into an antique lounge room and given two tables which, unfortunately, split the group in two. We had the adults on one table and the kids on the other. The fact that the tables weren’t side by side made it feel like we were two separate groups rather than one.

Communication was difficult when everyone wanted to discuss the fun we had during the day but half our party had their back to us; we managed. The kids were so hungry they held their cutlery in their clenched fists; reminiscent of Oliver twist.

The smell and sound of sizzling steaks enhanced our appetites. Tempting meals were placed on tables around us for existing consumers to eat; some were tucking into some artistic looking puddings. Chocolate sauce trickling down vanilla ice cream, profiteroles on a bed of fresh cream, apple pie buried in a trough of steamy custard and for the kids there was the chocolate mega Sundae in an oversize ornate glass with a spoon as long as their forearm.

We had to ask for a menu as we felt we had been abandoned; we had. The waitress who sat us down had forgotten we were eating and continued with her jobs. We were finally given a menu and after a little compromise we were ready to order.

Forty-five minutes later our meals arrived one by one. My stomach growled loader and my mouth salivated profusely with every plate that arrived. After a couple of delays all our meals had been served and silenced us all; well the adults at least.

There was little disappointment and plenty of empty plates. A few of us opted to try out their sweet selection after witnessing the dishes earlier. Again satisfaction was the outcome and our stomachs were full to bursting. Derek had the post Sunday meal syndrome; he was ready to sleep.

The Victoria Inn was the right venue for a large family meal and to say we arrived, with very little notice, on New Years Day; they accommodated us adequately. The Inn has a large garden with a river that runs parallel to it; I guess this is where the fresh salmon is caught?

On the whole we have had a fantastic New Years Day that was out of the ordinary and a wonderful precursor to the remainder of 2009. Although it was freezing cold we all had wonderful time and an experience we will never forget. Without today New Years Day would have been mundane. Thank you to all my family and friends who agreed to go through with it and thank you to all those in Wales who accommodated us so well.

My Guitar

As the strings reverberate throughout the hollow spruce body, rebounding in the vacant wooden cage, each note holding hands to create a melodious chain that escapes from beneath your fingers. Every day my guitar teases me when it sits motionless awaiting my attention

Its IT...

The life and times of an IT Trainer are not always as rosey as we would like to imagine.  Sitting in a Doctors surgery waiting to deliver training to a Midwife is not the best part of my job. 

Having to listen to the ins and outs of a maternal process is not a conversation i relish.  I can here faint reminders creeping under the surgery door of my days as a novice father sitting in that room on antinatal day.  The questions that are asked are not for the male ears. 

To think i was expected to sit in on the consultation with mother present, no way.  Vaginal discharge, nipple soreness, sex during pregnancy; you get the drift.  Just the word leakage now has a diferent meaning,  bring forth pictures of pads and conjealed blood. 

Swelling breast no longer bring images of Katie Price or Kerry Katona,  instead i see pain, tiredness and materal frocks. 

All I came to do is show them how to use an piece of clinical software not share the experiences of a new expectant mother.

What a job.

The office

9th March 2011. There is an eary silence in my office today. The window is slightly ajar and the the sound of advancing cars become loeder then gently fade as they dispear through into the Goscote estate; very hipnotic. Just me and James at the moment so not much conversation as he has his tasks and I have mine; by the way, blogging isn't one of them.

The sound of keys being bashed behind me by James indicates that he is inputting numbers of some sort. There is a rythmic typing followed by a sudden clout of the enter key, over and over agian; at least he is doing some work.

Anyway I had better put this to sleep for now or the government will be cutting my job let alone my pay.

By the way it is still strangley quiet, I can hear the wind gently howling over the roof of the building and see the trees swaying rapidly through my window, yet it still has a eery silent about it. Maybe i'm in for a win this week, the silence is talking to me.

Shhhhhhhh?

Wobaston Road Canal Bilbrook

As I walk down the gravelled towpath I remembered the old way we used to access the canal during my childhood. There was a two foot gap that led onto a partly grassed bank with a steep incline to the old towpath and waters edge. The two foot gap had been increased to about four foot to allow wheelchair access and the grass bank had been turned into a sixty foot gravel slope to allow the disabled and immobile easy access to the waters edge.

I noticed that the field to my right had not changed since my younger days. The field was dominated by scorched couch grass; it looked like a magnolia carpet. Although the grass was dry, the field was alive with tiny white moths dancing franticly and bouncing off the tips of each pale stem. As I stared into the field the moths turned into little white bubbles fizzing above a magnolia sea; I was amazed that I had never noticed this before.

There was a belt of nettles running round the outer edge of the field, this prevented anyone from trespassing; allowing it to be preserved for another 40 years or more. The gravel slope had a solid wood fencing both sides that had been partly destroyed somehow. I can only assume that the fence was erected to prevent any wheelchairs from careering off the slope and plummeting down the steep incline into the canal.

The incline that ran away from the fencing towards the canal edge was peppered with white and purple clover, with a sprinkling of tiny purple flowers popping their flower heads just above the triple green clover leaves; my search for the infamous four leaf clover was hopeless and short lived.
I was overcome by the silence. Realised how lucky I was to be standing in this beautiful countryside, I gave up the search for the lucky green crest; luck had brought this far, there was no need to pursue a crazy superstition any longer.

As I stood up I wondered why the nettle and the clover were so green with life yet the couch grass that grew amongst it was dry, pale and uninhabited; the thought soon disappeared as was distracted by the sound of three young mallards approaching from inside the canal bridge. Because they were babies it was impossible, without picking them up, to determine the sex of each duckling. They were like triplets all wearing the same clothes and all moving in the same direction. Neither of them had any distinguishing marks that set them aside from each other, from their beaks to the tips of their tails they were identical and a pleasure to watch. An old friend once told me that if you sit down to watch some ducks for five minutes you will still be there two hours later. The behaviour of ducks is fascinating and extremely funny. They can be motionless one minute then out of the blue dancing about mischievously the next. These three ducklings were no different; their antics were charming and relaxing.

There are 2 benches on the tow path made of good sturdy oak beams; they should last a lifetime if the vandals don’t destroy them. One is at the end of the disabled ramp and the other is under a hawthorn close to the bridge.

The bridge brings back many memories for me, however, none more dramatic than the time my brother nearly drowned when I was about 11 or 12. We were all together as brothers and sisters playing on the canal bank when my eldest sister said we had to go home. My eldest brother was stooped down on the edge of the canal, hypnotised by the slow motion of the water carrying tiny twigs and leaves like a miniature shipping lane.

One of my other brothers shouted him but there was no response, so he tapped him on the shoulder. He was startled and stood up too fast, lost his balance and slipped into the dirty water taking the twigs and leaves with him. He rose to the surface for a second then disappeared under again; back up and under again. My eldest sister was screaming frantically for someone to rescue him; none of us could swim. She ran up the bank waving her arms and screaming as we all watched him bobbing up and down. As we sobbed and felt sick at the thought of losing our brother, my other sister joined in with the waving and screaming on the main road. We heard the screech of car tyres, a scrape and a thump as the wheels must have clipped the curb as the Samaritan spotted my sisters’ pleas for help.

The man was very athletic as he leapt over the three foot steel railings like an Olympic hurdler without touching any part of it. He ran down the bank and dived into the cold murky water. As he dived under, my brother bobbed back up. As the Samaritan surfaced my brother disappeared again. The Samaritan paused for a while and spotted my brother surfacing only feet from him and dived back under in sync. The next time we saw him he had our brother in a headlock and dragged him to the waters edge then finally onto the bank. After a little resuscitation he popped him into his car along with one of my sisters and took him home. We were left to walk sobbing and wandering what trouble we were going to be in when we did arrive home. Apart from that dramatic episode I have had many hours of great fun along this canal.

I took a seat on the bench near the end of the ramp and watched the ducklings as they swam through the derelict lock. For as long as I can remember that lock has never been in service, with no paddles or arm to push it. The lock resembled the traffic calming measures we see on our housing estate; they simply reduce the width of the canal by about three feet on both side so only one boat can fit through.

Every now and again I could hear the ducks’ wings slapping the surface of the water as they played together. I could hear the continuous melodic sound of the skylark high in the sky but couldn’t see one. Sky larks tend to fly up to sixty metres high before rapidly descending to spend time on the ground looking for seeds and shoots to eat. I tried to spot the familiar white marks on their tail and feathers; I spotted neither feather nor lark.

As I stared out over the large green field that lay in front of me I was aware of the slow moving clouds dotted about in a blue sky. The fresh white Cumulus clouds sat high above me like little balls of cotton wool with a flat base. They created a spectacular effect by giving the impression that each one was sat on an invisible glass force field; a clear dome that encircled the earth. An aeroplane emerged from one of the clouds leaving behind the familiar white condensation trails in its wake. When I was a child I thought these trails were smoke coming from the engines and wandered if the birds ever choked to death as the planes passed by.

A herd of cows, about fifteen or twenty, were all cuddled up together as they lay on the ground. Again I always believed that this was an indication that it is going to rain. A farmer once told me that although it is an indication of rain, the reason they lie down is because the falling pressure that comes with rain affects their digestive system and makes them unwilling to graze, they become idle and lie down.

There is a strong whiff of cows’ manure that drifted across the field, this again was a reminder of my younger days; believe it or not this pungent smell brought back happy memories of me and my brothers playing in these fields.

In the distance I could see the spires of St Nicholas church, at the top of church road Codsall. My mother was buried there three years ago, a day I will never forget. I have always admired the spectacular views from the rear of the church over looking the Brewood area of the South Staffordshire countryside; I never thought I would be burying my mother there one day. She is in a beautiful spot that allows her to see the church tower, as well as looking over a field that is home to wild rabbits and horses.

As I was a Pallbearer for the funeral I find it very difficult to visit the church let alone visit mother’s grave. I remember the long walk down the sloping path that divides the grave yard into two halves. Halfway down, the procession passed under a brick arch that separates the older graves from the more recent ones, the realisation that I am taking my mother to her final resting place began to sink in. I was stood over a six foot open grave, ropes in hand, heart thumping, legs unsteady and tears running down my face. I was there to lower the woman I have loved unconditionally throughout my life into the cold dark soil below; it is an image I will never erase. The beauty of this magnificent church surrounded with the beautiful Staffordshire countryside could not lift the despair I felt that day; I much prefer to view the church from the canal bank for now.

The sudden sound of feet against the gravel path took my attention away from my loss and towards the elderly couple strolling along the towpath. They were both, the same height with silver hair. They clasped hands and swung their arms like school kids with their first love. They both smiled as they passed me and had a little giggle as if they knew that their lovers stroll was almost childlike. As they disappeared along the towpath, chatting and holding hands, my attention returned to the canal and the tranquillity that is inherent to this area.

I could hear the deep chugging engine of a long boat as it entered the bridge. The boat had a black base with a red and green top. I giggled to myself as the image of Rosy and Jim hiding from Fizzgog entered my head. Rosy and Jim were puppet characters on children’s TV. They travelled the midlands canal network on a long boat. Fizzgog was the pet name given to the captain; John. Fizzgog would steer the boat while Rosy and Jim came alive and had outrageous fun in the cabin while Fizzgog was not looking. As soon as John could here the commotion below, he would investigate. Rosy and Jim would turn back into puppets preventing Fizzgog ever finding out who was making all the noise. The boat coming from the bridge was decorated in a similar way to Fizzgog’s boat and the man steering was similar too. As the boat passed me I got a wave from a lady looking out from one of the 6 round windows that ran along the boat. As it disappeared into the distance it left a v shape ripple behind stretching from one side of the canal to the other. A thought entered my head; I wondered if the lady in the window was real or a puppet.

I decided to move to the other bench by the bridge so I could sit in the shade of the hawthorn that stood behind it. The grassy bank was dominated by clusters of daisies with their bright yellow centres waiting to be picked for daisy chains. I was tempted to become the chain maker but my nails were too short to split the stems. Dotted amongst the daises were the familiar tiny purple flowers I saw earlier. They were as small as forget-me-nots but I did not recognise them.

As I sat I noticed another longboat moored up just past the bridge on the other side. There were two people lying on top semi naked taking advantage of the sunny day we were having. I was tempted to take a walk for chat but I wasn’t that sure how naked they were and I didn’t wish to embarrass them.

As I looked away from the boat I noticed the three young mallards grouped together in front of me, they were opening and closing their beaks as if they were asking for food. They would pick at the surface of the water chopping it with their beaks then look in my direction, opening and closing their beaks again. I had the feeling that this bench was the feeding bench where pensioners and young courting couples came to feed the ducks. I was empty handed, and sat thinking, in hindsight, that I should have considered the ducks before I left the house.
I sat for a while staring out over the field watching the clouds tell their own story by changing shape. The cows were chomping on grass and shaking their heads to remove the annoying flies. Little midges danced on the surface of the water, every so often one would make contact and create the tiniest ripple that seemed to spread for ever. Suddenly a larger ripple would appear from the open mouth of a hungry fish taking the bait of the dancing midges. As I looked into the mouth of the bridge I could see a collection of gnats all jumping about in mid air moving from one side of the bridge to the other; always staying together.

Apart from an occasional car passing over the bridge and the distant sound of an aeroplane, it was silent. Everything was moving slowly with no effort involved. I wished that everyday was as relaxed and peaceful as this. I thought about Monday mornings and the hectic office, everyone rushing and moaning about the week ahead, buses rushing to and fro up the main street in front of my office window, car horns honking and ambulance sirens coming from the Manor hospital around the corner. The telephones ringing continuously and the beeping sound as the office computers all fire up, the many printers and photocopiers spewing out last minute documents for their board meetings, and medical staff coming to their training sessions.

There is always a stagnant smell in the large open office after a week end away and the toilets have an ammonia smell that is more pungent than the smell coming from the field in front of me.
The bridge becomes busier as cars pass over more frequently. It is nearly tea time and the workers from the local factory are packing up for the day and heading home; this human activity is an indication for me to head home also. I am sad to have to leave but I know that I can return anytime I wish. I also know that the view will be different each time, including the sounds and the smells. Even the ducks will have changed, they will be bigger and will have more colour. I walk to the end of the ramp to collect my bike and join the busy traffic for the journey home.

The lady and the crossing

She saw me as she approached the edge of the curb, raising her head slightly to check that I have slowed down. She steadied her self, took another glance then started her journey to the other side. She placed her walking stick on the first white stripe of the pedestrian crossing then shuffled her Eighty year old feet down the sloping curb stone, so her feet and walking stick were all on the same level. The wind is blowing her pale blue head scarf, releasing a couple of tufts of silver hair that keep passing in front of her eyes.

She is level with the dusty grey railings that ran parallel with the curb to protect the public from the traffic. Her last bus is waiting in the terminal, as it did every Wednesday at 2.30 in the afternoon. It is quite a busy afternoon. School children are enjoying their summer holiday heading for the town centre where the little old lady had come from.
She lifted her head another time followed by her walking stick, with her extended arm she pointed at my car. She had a sweet yet apologetic smile that said “I’m sorry but I think I will be here for a while”. I am in no hurry and I am more than pleased to allow her all the time she needed to reach the other side and catch her bus.

A middle aged man went speeding passed on a bicycle paying no regard to her age or her safety; he took her by surprise. Composing herself she gave me one more look, shrugged her shoulders and lowered her walking stick in front of her. Moving very slowly, she put one foot in front of the other, steadied her self and then did it again with the other foot. She wore tatty yellow plimsolls that had seen better days, and a long green trench coat that is stained on the cuffs, collar and hem. Her legs and ankles were so thin, her plimsolls looked too large. She reached the first black stripe and took a quick glance towards the waiting bus and then towards me.

I gestured to her that it is ok and gave her a reassuring smile, hoping that she doesn’t become embarrassed and try to rush. I felt anxious for her because I could feel her concern that she is holding up the traffic. The longer she paused, the more chance she had of missing her bus and become stranded in a busy town centre.

She lifted her stick once more and shuffled to the second white stripe. Without looking up she paused, steadied herself and started on her way again. I spotted in my rear view mirror that a car had pulled up behind me, as this is a single lane the car couldn’t pass until the lady crossed.
Discarded shopping bags, sweet wrappers, fast food bags and pages from a newspaper were being blown in a circle, like a mini cyclone, just feet from the old lady; I hoped that the shopping bag didn’t move any closer and get trapped around her feet.

She had made it half way across when a trio of youths walked towards her, in their arrogance they stopped, raised their arms out wide and gesture to the lady to move out of their way. She raised her stick in defiance, this journey has been tough enough so far; she is not prepared to prolong it for a bunch of disrespectful street kids. The tallest one dropped his shoulders, extended his arms towards her with open palms and told her to move, or else. Incensed, I sounded my horn and shook my head at them. My body language told them that I would leave my car to defend the lady if they continue their hostility towards her. The tall one formed his hand like a pistol and imitated shouting me; I continued my stare, not compromising my eye contact or the angry look on my face as they passed to the side of the lady and disappeared into the town.

There is a strong smell of curry drifting through the town; it is intermittent because the wind kept changing direction swiftly.

The lady continued on her way after giving me an appreciative smile hinting that she is proud of herself for standing her ground. The driver behind me pulled his car even closer to indicate his impatience. He is shaking his head and trying to catch my attention in the mirror, it is a useless attempt because I am going no where until this lady has caught her bus. I returned my attention to my new friend, keeping one eye on the impatient motorist up my rear.

She is three quarters of the way across placing one foot down in front of her and her placing her stick down for support. She steadies herself glancing at the bus then starts over again. I wondered how long it must take her to do her daily chores, or whether she lives in a residential home where her domestic needs are catered for by care staff. I hoped it is the latter because this must be so frustrating for her, and embarrassing; old people become embarrassed when they think they are a burden to others.

A distant cloud breaks exposing the heat from the sun. Instantly the right side of my face and my right forearm feel the heat as the sun intensified through my car window. The old lady slowly lifts her head to see where the sun is coming from then slowly lowers it; she takes another look at the waiting bus and continues on her way.
I can see the man in the car behind me becoming agitated. He holds his hands out above his steering wheel, with palms up; his gesture is clear. I know instinctively that he is cussing the old lady for taking such a long time to cross. I bet that he thinks she is doing it on purpose, just because she can.

The clouds close up again and the temperature is now comfortable. As she starts her journey again a sudden unexpected gust of wind blasts across the street catching her by surprise. She is pushed backwards losing her balance and sending her into a slight spin, she slams her walking stick to the ground like an anchor and regains her composure. I rose up in my seat swiftly and reached out my arms as if to catch her. My heart increased in speed and velocity as it also tried to leap out to help her. She gave me a cheeky smile before looking towards the bus willing it not to move off.

The driver behind me is so impatient he tried to reverse back to give him a way out, there is a bus blocking his path so he is stranded; as we all are. I understood the driver’s anxiety because I have been in that situation myself on occasions. Today, however, I am in no rush and to the little old ladies advantage; I am in the front of the queue.

She had one black stripe and one white strip left before she left the pedestrian crossing and we could all be on our way. The hem at the back of her coat is ripped and exposed strips of material from inside. The exposed cloth is trailing on the floor behind her, it is barely noticeable but still, it is enough to trip her if she stepped backwards. I prayed we had no more gusts of wind that could force her back into those potentially fatal strands.

Although I could easily pass and allow the traffic to resume momentum, I chose to stick with it and see this journey through. The driver behind me sounded his horn in frustration hoping I would break the Highway Code; I am not fazed by his demands nor is the lady.
She shuffled forward with determination, her ride home waiting stationary under the glass arched shelter. The driver still had his news paper on his steering wheel and his arms resting on the outer edge of the wheel with his hands clasped; this is an indication that he is not ready to move off yet. My little friend still had time to jump on board but I think she needs to focus on achieving those last two stripes and reaching the curb. One little yellow plimsoll touched the edge of the dropped curb followed by the second, her walking stick hit the ground and she steadied herself.

There is a gentle upwards slope before she is on flat ground. I knew I had to move on before the drive behind me is prosecuted for road rage. Luckily a mother and toddler stepped onto the crossing allowing me enough time to see that the old ladt had reached the summit and is safe. She turned her head, raised her right arm and extended it towards me. She smiled and gave me a little wave. I waved back. I wish I could jump out of my car and give her big hug and tell her how proud of her I am. She gave it all she could; it was like an epic journey, an adventure to reach a bus to take her home. I only wish I could have seen her climb aboard that bus and take that well earned rest on her journey home.