annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary



Sitting in the park, trying writing in different places to see what (if anything) happens. I'm surprised to realise that I have lived here for almost two months and this is the first time I've turned right as I leave my home, instead of heading straight for the sea and the heart of the city.

The park is muddy, leafless and stark. Almost monochrome apart from a stand of cornus, red stems glowing:

Things are stirring:

There are lots of dads out with small children, wandering slowly, slowly through the twists and turns of the paths in the tiny park. Toddlers wearing so many layers of clothes against the bitter cold that they can hardly move, just waddle like penguins, with their arms stuck out stiffly to the side.

An old man with a bristly red face, dark fleecy jacket and bobble hat, carrying a bright blue plastic bag, calls out "Hello." I'm writing, and look up to see it's me he's speaking to, with an almost indignant tone, but he keeps walking and I just write it down.

A small gang of 'hoodies' are swaggering along the path towards where I'm sitting. 'Hoodies' - honestly, the Fucking press are mental, conjuring this spectre of hooded feral youth, but actually, every type of person wears a hoodie in winter, they signify nothing, nada, except that it's cold. Poor youth, being feared by the elderly - I remember back when I was teaching, nice, drippy lads telling me about people veering away from them when they were walking back from church (or whatever innocuous activity). Outraged they were, and sad and confused, at getting this response to the very sight of them. Nothing's changed - there's still bollocks about gangs of hoodies terrorising neighbourhoods. Anyway, this lot are just lads, chattering and laughing together.

Lots of dogs being walked, both on and off leads; lots of shit being collected in plastic bags and placed in dog-shit-bins by decent civic-minded folk.

There's a damp piece of paper taped to a window: "Cafe closed due to electrical problem. We will be open as usual tomorrow, I PROMISE." No date but the note looked like it had done an overnighter, flapping damply against the shuttered window.

Four girls just passed, who made me grin openly at them. They looked about twelve or thirteen, all similarly dressed in jeans tucked into boots, warm jackets and scarves, hair done just so. Their arms linked, they walked in step, singing/rapping loudly in unison - I heard them before I saw them - words I couldn't catch but which made them giggle. They were closely followed by two droopy looking lads, who seemed to know them - they felt like one group and then they were all gone round the corner, just the shouty singing lingering, fading. Nice.

On the way home I liked this font on a block of flats - you can almost hear the theme music to Poirot, just looking at it:

and the fucking optimism of this made me smile and despair in equal measures:

a nice terrace:

and this plaque on a wall:

He had depression too, Winston Churchill. Called it the Black Dog. Mine feels more like a pit than a dog.

Grateful for: making it through another day; living here, in this flat, in this road, right here; the little cat, who has been comforting this evening; no snow here at all; furry slippers.

Sweet dreams xx

9:45 p.m. - 05.02.12


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