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.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

Trying to shake the sleep from my eyes this morning, I stood and looked out on the canal. There was something wrong with the picture. Still addled with the decay of half-life dreams, it took me a few moments to process what was different.

The canal was frozen.

Except for one small patch that stood up to the bullying of the -5°C temperature during the night, the water around my home was now supporting a thin crust of ice. Clearly baffled birds moved gingerly across the new environment. Hogging the one gash in the crystal skin were three swans, new visitors to my stretch of the Regent. While I and everything else shivered, they were the epitome of effortless elegance.

When I ventured outside, the cold air stripped away the last trace of sleep, but the surprises kept coming. At the point where the Westway traffic rumbles oblivious over the canal, more than 100 geese were gaggling. A honking chorus sounded as I pushed through them. Beaks were snapped open and shut like teen hoods trying to intimidate by playing with knives. Thankfully my ankles and knees escaped unpecked.

With the swans, geese, the partridge I ate at the Army and Navy Club and number of Lords I met last week, I feel as if every day at the moment is trying to offer up a gift category from The Twelve Days of Christmas. There have been no gold rings, maids or calling birds yet. However, given that Christmastide does not actually start to the 25th, there is plenty of time for the universe to deliver.