ALL my life’s a circle, sunrise to sundown. And after the summer that never was, we take the early morning road again.
You can set your clock by these city streets. Behind closed curtains, people yawn and stretch and the man in the house who is up all night, his kitchen light yoke-yellow in the darkness, flips the switch then retires to bed.
The rest of us head in the opposite direction.
“Too early, 6.30 is 10 minutes too early,” whispers the body stretched out on the bed.
But there is porridge to stir and coffee to brew. The early blackbird is out hunting the worm and there is a hole in my winter slippers. Kiss barefoot goodbye, I think. Summer is slipping away – you cannot catch and keep the golden light on the lawn.
And if I were Beatrix Potter, that holey slipper would be a soft fleece bed for a small mouse, Tommy Tipkins.
I once read that by the time she died, her house was a haven for small animals – Mrs Tiggywinkle and probably a whole lot of bad rabbits hiding from Mr McGregor.
For a brief moment I think of our own wildlife menagerie – our giant spider who reigns over the living room at night; the daddy longlegs fluttering through open windows.
Late in the evening when I go to shut the gate, I come upon two snails mating... bonne chance I whisper, go make babies but just keep em away from my plants.
And so the days shorten, the sun bows out, the shops are full of fleecy jackets and warm woollens and the thermal vest my sister gifted me is singing siren songs from the cupboard.
And always, the daily grind calls.
After 7am of a morning, too tired to talk, we swipe September mist off car windows and take to the streets. A minute early and we are just ahead of the bus; a minute late and we are just behind it and I am cursing at each jolting stop.
Down the long tree-lined avenue we drive and you can set your clock by the little tramp in black waddling in shoes that are far too long, that are turned up at the ends – a Charlle Chaplin on a long walk to God knows where.
Is it the destination or the journey?
Profound chat for the early morning – down past the embankment, over at the bridge, watch that amber gambler, rant from the privacy of your own car at the lane weaver bird.
Dream your dreams. Savour the beauty of a still September morning.
It feels that everything has happened again and again and again – on the car radio, Elton is crooning The Circle of Life and so it goes on.
The crowd of teenagers at the street corner are waiting for a lift to God knows where. They stand, all false bravado, hands in pockets; boys who would be men, far from home.
The hippy throwback in his 60s, pounds the streets, long grey locks flowing in the wind. Has he somewhere to go or is he just keeping going because he still can?
On down to the spaghetti junction of the roundabout and my favourite Falls place; taxi drivers may call it the Westicles but it is the Rise that makes my heart soar – lit up at night; fresh, clean and white; spiralling through so many dreams.
And over at the hospital, people look down from high windows punch drunk from long, restless nights – the highs of new beginnings; the lows of slow endings. For this is how life goes.
And caught up in the mundane, in the everyday, we forget how precious it is.
Up past the corner and on to the road I have taken as a child with my father, driving up to visit family; as a young journalist to shootings and on to countless funerals you can never forget – processions of still silent mourners, so many undone by death.
And the years flip by.
Titti Bingo – what is titti bingo? There is a sign on the road for a kind of bingo I’d never heard of before. But you can go to that now, two fat ladies, yo ho ho.
And this everyday journey ends up at the same place where we say goodbye and I drive off, leaving you standing still at the grass verge, one hand raised in a wave.
It is a freeze frame moment – pause; wave; breathe deeply, drink sweetly the beauty of normality – and then beat the way back to the madness of the day.
