Pulled Along in the Westway’s Undertow

Morning may have arrived with a burst of exuberant sunshine bothering the curtains, but it was clear to me I was not going to be able to match its energy. I have been running on vapours for too many days. It took until nearly noon for me to drain my second cup of tea and let the arrival of my ticket to Australia to sink in.

Depending on route and weather, in sevens weeks time I may be flying over the Himalayas. I know what I am like on these journeys. I will push my face to the window to glimpse the rocks below. Relate them to the childhood dreams of exploration. Relish every moment that expands the map of wonder.

My journeying today was more pedestrian. I drifted towards Portobello Road, pulled along in the Westway’s undertow. At the market figs were bought to be roasted with honey, vanilla and cinnamon. Derogatory songs about Operating Thetans were sung as the peddlers of Scientology plied their trade. Cold was warded off by Malay sweet corn fritters and a banana version of Kueh keria. Some Sinclair retrieved from a charity shop, a New Statesman comic found for 50p.

Later, the figs hot and sticky like a teasing kiss in the mouth, the lights low, Zodiac rolled across the screen. The geese outside honked as Mark Ruffalo mumbled and Robert Downey Jr. shouted: ‘Jesus Herald Christ on rubber crutches Bobby!’ I knew I might not get more than three hours sleep when I crawled beneath the duvet, but at least the batteries of my will were recharging.