Then, as Now (Part 3 of 5)

confessions of a ten-, thirty- and seventy-year old

Part Three: when did I stop being who I am?

Noon

I’m on my back in the hollow. The sun, high above in a pure blue sky, dapples its light through leaves of the elm tree under which I am lying. The grass is soft under my back, and I smell the warm earth. Red Admirals and Cabbage Whites make their way from one bright yellow clump of buttercups to the next. Dull yellow horseflies buzz around cowpats and I think that if I were a horsefly, I’d quite like cowpats too. In a bit, I’ll climb up the hill to the clearing. From there, I can look out over the main road and the railway line to the estuary. Just around the headland is the real-life Westward Ho! and I’ll be on the lookout for any Spanish ships or pirates.

I can see our yellow brick home standing out on the hill to my right and for a moment, I am that young boy on that Greek island, my family in The Banana Yellow Villa while I’m down here with other animals.

Cows are munching grass rhythmically whilst looking down at me thoughtfully. Every now and then they lower their heads and curl their tongues around a new tuft of grass. I like the tearing sound as they wrench it free. I try to picture them as monsters but it doesn’t work; they are curious, not frightening. I swap them for mythical creatures instead, watching wisely over me.

I’m chewing on a stalk of grass I’ve pulled gently from its longer stem and now I’m tasting its sweetness, squeezed out as I draw it between my teeth. I’d eaten the first Mars bar after the fish escaped this morning. I’ve just eaten the last of the seven biscuits. The second Mars bar has pretty much melted into the canvas of my bag but I manage to half-scrape, half-suck some of it off. I’ll wash the bag out as much as I can later, after I bury the wrappers in the dustbin where no one will see them.

I roll onto my knees and get up, hoisting the sticky bag over my shoulder. I call, voicelessly, to the friends in my head, that we must make tracks - we have a long way to go before nightfall and we cannot tarry here any longer. I’m not completely sure what ‘tarry’ means but it’s in Swallows & Amazons. Or is it Wind in the Willows? Maybe The Hobbit.

ºººº

I feel oppressed by my office, with its flush veneer door and tired yellow walls. Or am I depressed? The brown cork board, covered in colourful paper and pins, resembles a collection of managerial butterflies. The cheap oak desk and well-worn carpet tiles offer no respite from the monotony. I no longer enjoy marketing, not as a Director.

Ken pokes his head in, inviting me to lunch at the new deli-cum-café in the market square. Though he rarely asks, I decline, gesturing from behind a computer screen which occupies half of the desk, to a pile of files and papers which cover the rest. I’m holding the phone handset up, as if ready to make a call. I look back down at my desk as I hear the door close.

I feel the tension across my shoulders. An old, familiar inner voice whispers: I’m an imposter; no way I can finish the plan by Friday. Another weekend of working and worrying deepens a dullness inside me. I push away the thought of explaining to her how important my job is, again, and seeing her tired, patient eyes as she says nothing in a way that says it all.

I will open that bottle of Chateau Neuf after dinner tonight.

Head down, I don’t notice that Ken hasn’t gone out the door and instead is sitting in one of the comfy chairs by the coffee table. Or that he’s looking at me with his serious expression.

ºººº

Here in the kitchen, noon is still five hours away. It’s five hours away everywhere in the cottage. When it arrives, after a writing session, I’ll return to slice sourdough, grate cheese and brew coffee for lunch. Then, we’ll take Ziggy for his walk. Or perhaps it’s our walk with Ziggy as our personal wellness coach?

Chilliness has swept down from the Arctic but the morning’s cloudless sky looks set to stay for the day. I’m looking forward to feeling the warmth of the sun on my face and noticing that particular clarity of light that belongs to cold, dry air. Red cherry blossoms are out already. The arcade of white blossoms lining the road into the village is a at least a couple of weeks off yet.

After lunch, I’ll take a break from writing and sneak a glance at the stats for my published posts. I’m always pleased by what I see - even a single reader reacting gives me joy. And twenty, thirty ‘hearts’? I’m not admitting it anywhere in public, but even after 70 years of personal growth and over 50 hours of Eckhart Tolle on YouTube, there is still a slight feeling of smugness at this measured success.

That’s five hours or so in the future. Now, I am returning to the big, red notebook. The one with the beautiful paper. And hundreds of empty pages. I’m talking quietly to myself again. Get on with it, old boy.

Part One - Dawn

Part Two - Sunrise

Part Four - Sunset