Sunday, February 12, 2006

So it's still winter.

London... I land at Heathrow. Luggage doesn't arrive (first time ever). Terminal 2 still as drab as three weeks ago. Get on the tube to go home, same British accents. Same groups of girls with cans of larger going clubbing. In Egypt, the women are more or less covered head to toe. In London, the women look naked. Should the winter air be blowing those bits? Saturday night perhaps. The Sikh man asks someone who looks Asian something in an Indian langauge, "only English, only English" the man replies, heavily accented, evidently upset. Why don't you immigrants leave the mother language behind.

Got to Green Park, the interchange between the lines still as long as ever. This time I stroll, I'm not rushing anywhere. No friends to meet up with. No urgent meetings that I'm running late for. People walk past me. No questions about where I'm from. Nobody curious as to which football team I'm in London to watch. At my destination, music blaring. Suspicious-looking man standing at the entrance. I clutch my laptop harder. Strap the buckles on my jacket. Brace myself for the cold, then cring as I step into the open. As usual, my ears freeze. Nothing changed, dustbin still in the same place. Pavement works progressed. Plantain shop closed. Saturday, can't miss the Guardian on Saturday. Missed British newspapers and current affairs while I was away. Look at the magazine shelf. Zoo: Chantelle with nipples on display. Some other magazine, Preston dumps Chantelle, goes back to... whoever.

Walk home. Streets are quiet. Car is still there. Council sticker on about it being an abandoned vehicle. Must sort out road tax, or move it into the garage. The letters have piled up. No red letters yet, but they'll come soon I'm sure. Room is a mess. Always is. Broadband works like a dream, I gush. I check bank account online, I stop gushing. Have barely slept for two days, body clock is two hours ahead. Need sleep. Stare at the ceiling in darkness. I ask philosophical questions. What's it all about? Why am I here? Why is it all so ordinary? These questions didn't crop up once over the last three weeks. Had no time for thinking about life, was living life. Perhaps pause for thought is good.

I go back online. Where will I go next? Where is the next adventure? I see the prices, reality bites. I bookmark the pages. I'll come back to them. I promise I will.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

i don't know what they call it in literature but i like the way you wrote this post...from the first person reflecting stuff. it was nice. anyways welcome home.