Stillness

Thanks in part to the unseasonably good weather round our way, there's been an odd (but not unpleasant) atmosphere in the city this week. I think it's probably compounded by the fact that the schools are on half term holiday, which makes travelling to and from work a far less fraught and frustrating kind of experience. It also means I don't have to get up until 20 minutes after I usually would, since the roads are so quiet: well, relatively quiet anyway. Even the bus drivers are uncommonly cheerful, which is actually quite unsettling, so rare is it.

But - it's more than just a case of being quieter on the roads either side of the working day. Nor is it merely a case of the change in atmosphere being due to the unexpected sensation of the city being drenched in glorious, golden sunlight.

What has struck me, as I've walked along at the beginning of my day, is that it reminds me of a very early morning in late spring or summer: bright, pleasantly warm, and almost eerily still. Stop walking and, save for occasional birdsong, the quietness has been amazing.

The equivalent happened as I headed through the backstreets of town on my way from work this afternoon: it felt like a late spring evening, and the atmosphere practically demanded of me that I take my time and enjoy the moment. Even the car parks and industrial buildings, the alleyways and the canal where the drinkers congregate seemed pleasant enough places to take pause for a few moments (I could be cynical and say that this was because the sun was in my eyes and it was difficult to see at all, but I'll let that pass).

I suppose the slight feeling of eeriness that I'm getting at is because, whilst in no way unwelcome, it's way too soon for us to be having such a spell of weather. At this time of year, such conditions seem to alter the sense of time, so that my first couple of waking hours feel like 5am in June, and the late afternoon sun feels like 9pm midsummer. Take the school run away from the equation, and that just intensifies the whole feeling.

Mind you, thinking about it, this state of affairs also reminds me of the opening weekend of the 2002 World Cup finals. That was over the course of a bank holiday weekend in May (I think) and, since the tournament was in Japan and South Korea, many of the pubs were opening at ridiculously early hours of the day and serving breakfast for those who wanted to watch the first games. Come 3 o'clock in the afternoon, the legions of diehard footie fans (and drinkers), spurred on by fine weather and a long weekend before they had to return to work, were as inebriated as they would be at the end of a hectic Saturday night.

I remember wandering through the locale and feeling like I was walking through the village of the damned (I haven't seen the film of the same name but the phrase seemed to fit): all the carnage of a late night illuminated by the bright afternoon sun. A couple of inert bodies lay in the gutter; two people were stood in the middle of the road (there was barely any traffic since everyone appeared to be in the pub) trying to have a fight, violently swinging punches and looking puzzled as to why they didn't connect.

The fact was that these inebriated adversaries were a good ten feet away from each other, and it would have been amusing to watch - were it not all so odd and faintly grotesque. Further down the road a man in a similar state of intoxication tried and utterly failed to jump over the wall, 1ft high as it was, that stood between him and the entrance to the off-license.

Well, back to this week and its altogether more pleasant sense of disconnect. May as well get used to it, I'm sure we'll have much more of this kind of thing in the years to come; on the other hand, I may as well make the most of it for now, since the forecast indicates rain and snow come the weekend. At least it'll actually feel like February.

Days

....four working ones before I finish for Christmas. I'm trying not to wish them away too quickly. The last three years I've not had much of a break, but this year I really felt like I needed it and so, after Friday, I don't return to work until January 3rd. That's still only a week and a half but it's the longest time off I will have had since I started this job.

Which will make it hard to start back again.

That's the negative stuff out the way: whatever happens or crops up this week, I'm off at the end of it and that's that. I'm not really looking forward to anything specific with my time off, just the time off itself. I'll be spending some of it up in Derbyshire, which means peace and quiet (and booze) and plenty of long walks. Last year - or was it the year before? - it was magnificently foggy some of the time (as in the weather, not my frame of mind), and there was a pleasant eeriness to wandering around the lanes and pathways with hardly anyone else in sight. I'll be taking my camera with me and will post any worthwhile pictures up here once I'm back.

I remember last year having a long walk while I was in a mild stupor, and feeling a sheer sense of relief at being temporarily free from the rigours of the daily routine. I summed it up with a rather grandiose phrase which I saved in my mobile phone: the freedom from everyday restrictions tempts me to do what I consider to be normal. Which doesn't necessarily mean I automatically want to do something "weird," but serves to indicate that a lack of externally-imposed structure gives me more space in which to clear my mind, be myself.

Am I thinking about this too much? Perhaps, but these lanes and paths are the same ones as described here, and which carry a lot of resonance for me. I used to also spend time out here late at night with paints and sketchpad (and cans of beer), and it would be so dark that I would have to have a system of remembering which paints I'd used so that they didn't get completely muddled up. The results - when they actually turned out alright - were a sort of cross between what a late Turner seascape might have looked like were he very drunk and very arthritic, and the visual equivalent of eating spaghetti. I'm sure that's not too hard to imagine is it? Probably the above also serves to add context to "what I consider to be normal."

Actually it used to be very enjoyable to go out and paint late at night, though occasionally the sense of eeriness would get the better of me and I'd have to pack up and head back to somewhere slightly less off the beaten track.

Well, following on from the previous post, I would enjoy it if we had a proper fall of snow: but some heavy fog would be enough for me. On Saturday I'll hopefully be meeting up with some friends for the revival of an old tradition, they used to get together on (or as near to it as possible) the shortest day for a walk in the Peak District, with mince pies and mulled wine for refreshments. Followed, hopefully, by a stop in a decent pub with a real fire, good food and some real ale.

Cake dream

Dreams are brilliant. I had a dream last night. You know how weird and funny they can be.

In this one, I was in some old, walled Italian city. Beautiful place, all narrow streets, squares and porticos (whatever they are - it sounds Italian so I'll leave it in). Actually I don't know why it was Italian, it just was.

The thing about it was, the place was under siege. By whom, I don't know. But there was chaos, panic and unrest throughout, as old stone blocks fell from the sides of buildings and fire seemed to reign down from the sky (the impression I got was that the fire was a bombardment of missiles of some sort - but it was aflame anyway).

Amidst all this, I was in a place which seemed like some kind of hostel or commune or something. There was a huge communal kitchen with a few side rooms almost like dorms and offices (the implication seemed to be that I worked in this kitchen along with someone else). The tension in here was palpable too.

There was a sense of day and night passing and things getting more intense, everyone in motion, hurrying around as things appeared to be getting more desperate outside.

Then, in this hostel/commune kitchen area, someone took me to one side. A mysterious hooded figure, ill-defined, but like an odd cross between the sandman and a sinister bond villain. He told me I had one sure-fire way of getting out. He told me to be very careful, and not to let anyone else in on this, except one other person who already knew, and who would be escaping with me.

I had to lean forward as he whispered to me my instructions. It was important I didn't miss a detail, I thought. His voice sounded ancient and full of gravitas (or gravel).

"You will be aware....that there are two trays full of cakes in the cupboard down there."

Yes?

"You will take these cakes with you - but do not let anyone else see them. These are your key to escape."

The cakes? THE CAKES? CAKES ARE MY WAY OUT?

"SsssssSSSSHHHHHHHHHH! Look! Everyone else is looking for them! If you tell anyone, your chance is lost!"

I lowered my voice.

So, I was to just take the cakes and go?

"Yes. With her -" he pointed to the woman who worked alongside me in the kitchen " - but don't let anyone see you with the cakes!"

Guess what? He was right. I didn't know how, but they really were our escape ticket. We got the cakes, all two trays of them. We sidled our way through the chaos both within and without the building, and out of the increasingly hellish spectacle of the walled city, taking strength and courage from each other (and the cakes, presumably) as we went.

Brilliant!

My lazy attempts at analysis so far make me think that the city and the pandemonium within it, represent the often dispiriting chaos that is my work. Perhaps the woman I escape with, represents the fact that I need some help from someone to effectively change my situation. Maybe the sandman/Bond villain represents my subconscious, or conscience (oh dear, is that what it looks like?), trying to guide me along. Maybe, maybe not, but that all makes some kind of sense so far.

But the cake? Any ideas?