A coffee and a tear

Remembrance Day: a day to remember those who gave their lives for our freedom. Such a poignant if distant concept. Personally, I have never felt the touch of war. I have the utmost respect for those who do sacrifice so much, yet I feel removed from it. Within that minute of silence I attempt to visualise what it must feel like to face conflict in an unfamiliar place. Flashing across my mind are the brutal battle scenes of 'Enemy at the Gates' and 'Saving Private Ryan', interjected with dusty BBC news reports. I claw desperately at something to make the horrific reality tangible. Today I got that.

During this united moment of reflection I found myself sat in Costa. As the town hall clock struck eleven and the staff stopped serving, I with the rest of the customers, put down our coffee cups and respectfully bowed our heads. On the next table this action was exaggerated, heavier, and after normal business resumed I stole a glance to find an old man with his head in his hands.

As humdrum was reignited the old man got a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his eyes. The chair opposite him was occupied with a quilted beige winter coat and only as he retrieved it and put it on did I notice the jingle of medals it carried.

Remembrance became real today. I don't know what memory led this frail man in his woollen jumper and hearing aid to shed the tears that he did, but I do know that I am indebted to him for whatever he has been though. In the midst of that busy coffee shop the impact of war was felt this morning.

Ribcage protects the heart

The waltz of the rat race

Shoulders hunched. 

Commuters scurry, to the breakfast meeting that they are already late for. Checking phones for the latest emails. Eyes fixed on the pavement as they mentally run through the imminent presentation. Juggling the scolding Starbucks in a desperate attempt to waken weary souls.

Stop. 

Heads are upturned en-masse. The force of gravity suddenly eased. The unanimous wonder. How high is it? Who cleans the windows? The building leads the eye to the clouds. Out of the un-noticed blue comes a vertical bridge, welcoming the blinkered to a parallel world. Serenity. Stillness. Calm. Clenched shoulders drop and breaths are slowed. There is something soothing in the waltzing of the clouds across their dance floor, our sky. 

The meetings haven't disappeared. The deadlines still loom. But in a few seconds a concrete covered steel frame has the capacity to teach an important lesson of perspective. Today may be comprised of caffeine and PowerPoints, but the world is out there and it's bigger than that.  

Finding the sun in the dirt

Reflecting the bridges we build

Colouring the moment

Dinosaurs, fairies, butterflies and spiders. No, this is not a fantasy version of 'I went to the shop and I bought...' These were my companions this evening. In a valiant attempt to make the most of the wonderful light evenings that late June grants, I grabbed my bike and headed along the river. 

Now repeatedly I try and make a point of looking up as I go about the day to day. It's an eye-opener to see what is above the normal line of vision; the date of a building's construction, a hanging basket, or in the case of my Saturday morning, a poo-ing pigeon. Anyway, I digress. 

This evening my looking up philosophy was turned upside down, for the turning of the peddles provided the entrance to a world of momentary creativity. Along the smooth tarmac some expressive minds had gone to work with coloured chalks. Now call me old fashioned, but there is a simple joy in having a child explain their drawings. What to the adult eye is a confusion of clashing colours that are not within the proper lines, is a child's exploration a world that we have long since buried. 

Pride of place, the fruits of their labour are displayed on the fridge for all to admire, until the splashed orange juice and curling edges seem fit reason to scrapbook this dear snapshot of childhood for future nostalgic moments. 

The beauty of chalk and tarmac is the fleeting joy it creates. This will not be preserved, framed or the subject of scrutiny. Come the next rain shower all that will be left is a dis-coloured puddle. As the cliche states 'We are human beings, not human doings'. Perhaps it's time to be. To enjoy the colour of the moment that will be washed away when the time is right. No matter how hard we try pictures fade, edges curl. Not everything can be preserved. But that is no reason not to enjoy the moment. 

Today as the hay-day

Standing tall under the clouds

Pint Size

27.1 square feet. An opportunity for encroaching on the personal space of others and exchanging awkward smiles with fellow occupants. Check your hair in the surrounding mirrors aiming to ease claustrophobia. Watch as the digital numbers descend to the relevant floor at a glacial pace. 

The expectations of a ride in a lift. Shoppers pile in. On this occasion though I found myself with only two other companions. Feeling the gaze of the pint sized toddler looking up from her Barbie pink pushchair I couldn't help but return a smile. This understated smile triggered a story that not only stopped me in my tracks but is also a challenging message. 

Catching the eye of the woman accompanying Pint Size she proudly stated, 'A year and a half' to which I made the appropriate responding gush women the world over are joined by. 'No, no, a year and a half since I got her' she replied. After a receiving a quizzical expression she went on to tell the heart breaking tale of how Pint Size's real mother had brought her to the woman's house to be babysat and has never been seen since. In the 60 seconds spent in that 27.1 square foot box I learnt that Pint Size's mother had never been traced by the police in the 18 months since she left and that the this woman, the baby sitter had faced reluctance from her own family as she formally adopted Pint Size.

This was not a sob story. In fact as she headed out of the lift, across to the job centre, she proudly stated, 'she has me and I have her'. 

As my head spun I contemplated how and when you tell a child that they have been abandoned and whether she will question that her skin is a different colour from her mother and why her brother and sister are old enough to be her parents. But none of this matters now, as this little girl has a mother who loves her and would give anything to share her life with her. A lot can be learned in 60 seconds. 

Embrace love in all its forms

The thud of love

The dull thud on the worn carpet. The tinkle of the misfitting letter box as the footsteps of the postman fade. There is something special about receiving a letter. A brush with years gone by. A time where communication entailed wrestling with a broken zip as you brace yourself against the autumnal afternoon chill, ensuring that the postbox is reached before the designated collection time. Letters can be tucked away in jewellery boxes and sock draws, or even used as a bookmark. A single piece of paper that would be worthless to anyone else. But to you it is the lifeline to someone who has impacted your story. A lost love, a passing phase, a reminder of youth. 

A couple of times I've written letters to myself. A few minutes spent splurging encouragement, thoughts and musings. But, here's the best bit. Give it to someone else to post back to you in 6 months, a year, whenever they find it forgotten in a kitchen drawer. Life goes on. Then one day out of the blue, that familiar thud comes with a personal reminder, a time capsule, a surprise peek into a distant diary of spontaneity. Surprise yourself with the relevance. Have a chuckle at how you have grown. Celebrate your life.

A new perspective

Spread your wings

Runway to the clouds

Beauty right under your nose

The Dead Duck Day

Let me guess, the cogs are turning as you dig out the Hugh Grant Rom-Com which first coined that phrase. But on this occasion I am quite happy to plagiarise, as there is no more eloquent way of summing up what was a tragic loss in my life.

Confession: I am a creature of habit. You could set your watch by the humdrum of tasks that make up my average Tuesday for example. Anyway, a daily acquaintance who similarly you could set your watch by was the 8.40am viewing of an exotic duck in my local park. I am fortunate enough to, at this time be peddling to the office, unless of course it’s raining, in which case your watch will be very out, as I take the bus.

Not wanting to sound like an M&S advert but, this is not just any duck. No, this duck was the only one of its kind in the park. Brightly coloured and seemed to keep himself to himself. It is due to this self-inflicted solitude that he first caught my eye. From then on, sure enough at 8.40am he would be there waiting on a waterlogged branch which served as a convenient perch.

Given the title of this piece, you can probably see where this is going. After weeks of looking out for him proudly watching over the pond, yesterday morning I received a shock. Not wanting to make a CSI worthy analysis; it appears that my dear friend had got caught on some rubbish on his perch and would no longer be brightening my days.

This is not a sermon about litter-louts much as I despise the practice. It is however, a challenge to you to look for the simple pleasures in your humdrum. It may not be a colourful duck but whatever works for you. Let it be a window of joy in the mundane.

Oh, and by the way, it was ‘About a Boy’

Always looking up

More than a passing phase.

The crescendo of the buzz of a bee draws near. A distant component of the background soundtrack bringing reality to the day. As a dog pricks his ears, so heads are turned to view the approaching source of the sound. This is no bee.

The scuttling shoppers, school children and office workers are parted by the fast approaching addition to the high street scene.

A character who with cannot fail to replace a furrowed brow with a glimpse of cheer. The weathered face of a scaffolder overhead, downs tools to watch. The ruddy faced  toddler is silenced mid-tantrum. Here he comes.

Velvet slippered feet straddle the standard issue mobility scooter. Collar turned up against the breeze of momentum. The tweed trilby, perhaps a nod to a smarter more youthful day. The look completed by the highly practical, somewhat amusing addition of a pair of rubber science goggles. Either this speed merchant was making a hasty getaway from a lab experiment gone wrong, or he simply had a reckless love of speed.

Assuming the latter, there is a tangible respect felt on the street for this overgrown daredevil. As smirks are shared between those witnessing such unbridled rebellion, a challenge is brought to the table: You are never too old to have fun. Those brave enough to take the challenge will be met with the turning of heads and nods of admiration. Quite rightly so. 

Simple pleasures of life

Meat Feast or Blood Bath?

Picture the scene. A small crowd gathering. Faces of desperation as limbs flail and food is grabbed. No regard for broken nails. They say ‘every man for himself’, and this scene is truly a testament to that philosophy. So you've conjured up the image. Let me guess, you’re thinking sand between the toes of shoe-less refugees as they fight for the handouts from the back of a long awaited Red Cross lorry.  

Think again, this my friend was actually the scene witnessed in Aisle 3, as I too clutched my basket in the crowds, fighting for the end of the day rejects. The unwanted, droopy Little Gem is now a bargaining chip in the fight for a cheap dinner. 

Along with countless others, as the clock creeps to 5.55pm we await in earnest to see what goodies are on offer for tonight’s meal. The assistant braces himself as he wheels the trolley of manna to the appointed fridge. Like a moth to a flame customers as far away as the household aisle drop their half price Windowlean and dash across the store for a slice of the action. Flashbacks of the nineties occur as ‘Supermarket Sweep’ becomes a chilling reality.

Now don’t get me wrong, I like a bargain as much as the next person. In fact, scratch that. I like a bargain more than the next person; spending many a happy Saturday afternoon with my nose in the Bric-a-brac shelf of the local Oxfam. But is this one step too far? Should we really be witnessing a tug of war over a nine pence cucumber? Is this a sign of the times? Are the days of waiting 4 deep at the bar being replaced with waiting 4 deep at the fridge?

Pickings were slim tonight but I walked away with a family sized quiche Loraine bought with change found in my sofa. Let’s see what tomorrow brings and if I again will manage to walk away unscathed.