Scratching The Darkness

Do you like my fireflies?

I snap out of my reverie, the lit cigar in my hand, and look about. I thought I was out here alone in the chilly evening, but my thoughts were miles away; a quiet army could have walked up behind me most likely.

The cohiba’s light, sweet smoke drifts from me in a circle as I turn, the gravel of the driveway crunching under my weight. A smile begins to form to welcome my company, presumably another guest escaping the stifling heat and the boom-boom of the wedding reception indoors.

I’m surprised to discover that there’s nobody there. And there’s certainly no fireflies; this is rural England, not the American outback. There might be a few badgers out there rustling through the first throws of Autumn, but there’s no cicadas, and definitely no fireflies.

My mind must have been wandering further than I thought.

I chuckle to myself and tap a little ash from my stogie, careful to keep it clear of my best suit and tie. I like weddings, but I’m not that skilled at making small talk with acquaintances, let alone strangers; inevitably, a little overwhelmed, I’ll step outside from some cool air and five minutes to myself. I’m not a smoker, but on these rare occasions, I enjoy a cigar, usually a good one. A good excuse.

I regard this evening’s particular cigar curiously for a moment – fireflies? - and draw on it again.

The night changes around me, and for the second time this evening I’m in August 2008.

Behind me, the exclusive Princeton Golf Course Clubhouse is rocking into the night, competing with New Jersey's cicada chorus by offering up a boom-boom celebration of our circle's latest wedding. I’ve stepped outside from the heat and huff of the wedding reception and its fine display of truly outdated dance moves. Relatives, you have to love ‘em.

Above me, a moonless sky dances with a million points of light; we’re a long way from town here, and well shielded by trees; it’s rare to see this many stars. I smile, enjoying the spectacle as I drag on today’s treat of a cigar.

A brief flash of green light catches my eye, from what I can just make out as a copse of trees in the gloom. My curiosity piqued, I watch the area for a moment, and I’m rewarded with another ephemeral emerald streak. I start to amble in that direction, stepping away from the building; paving slabs tap beneath my feet in an easy rhythm, but quickly yield to the grass of the back lawn. The fearless chirruping insects continue their serenade as a third momentary flash of green scratches the darkness. If it were higher, I’d assumed it was a shooting star, but this was below the level of the trees, and its afterimage looks curved.

A dozen intended steps quickly becomes a fifty-pace exploration. I leave the half-lit back lawn of the clubhouse, stepping through an ivied archway into deeper wooded darkness. Again, fleeting emerald fires lead the way, and I’m vaguely aware that they’re drawing me away from the building towards – what?

The trees are denser now, but I’m still on some kind of path and keep a slow and even pace. I'm aware on some level that the cicadas have faded away behind me. Ahead of me, beyond the line of trees, a virid glow draws me the final few yards and out into the open.

My view is eerie and beautiful. Above a kidney-shaped, immaculate green surrounded by sand traps, dozens of fireflies circle the 18th hole’s flag. Their movement is lazy and random. My jaw drops open.

The silence swirls around me.

Do you like my fireflies?

To the right of the green, a tall, slender figure rakes the sand of a bunker. I can’t make him out in the starlight, but I’m not startled or alarmed; his voice is quiet and friendly, and the glowing insects have me captivated.

Yes, they’re beautiful, I say honestly, still gaping a little. This is amazing; do they normally do this? Swarm around the pin?

No, Sir, says the man, not pausing in his work, though they're usually where I am, I'm pleased to say. He chuckles. I can see that would make night work a little easier, though I don't vocalise that thought; it really doesn't make this scene seem any less surreal.

On the green, the cloud of fireflies widens slightly, and the scene brightens a little. The figure now appears to be wearing well-loved dungarees and an equally battered cap. His feet are bare. I'm still unsure of his ethnicity, though it seems irrelevant. I stroll down the gentle slope towards the flag, pausing on the edge.

Do you do a lot of maintenance at night? The question is obvious, but it sounds sarcastic, which was not intended. It's said that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. I disagree; punning is the lowest form of wit, while sarcasm is just rude. I scramble to prop up my question. That's very dedicated of you.

The man leans on his rake, perhaps reflectively; it's hard to tell in the half-light.

Oh, you know how it is, Sir; a work of love is never a chore. I like his upbeat outlook, but don't mistake his good manners for deference. There is a quiet confidence about the man; he truly belongs here. Circling the edge of the green, I close the gap between us, and he steps up from the bunker to meet me.

My name's Roth. Indigo Roth. We shake hands briefly; his touch is dry, warm, elusive. My eyes are adjusting to the night, and I'm surprised when I meet his gaze; he has a hint of the Middle East about him. This is unusual in this neck of the woods.

I have a lot of names, Indigo, he smiles quietly as I detect a hint of an exotic spice in the air, but round here they just call me The Groundskeeper.

The moment feels significant, though I have no idea why.

What brings you out here onto the golf course? My company gestures down the faint approach of the fairway. I don't see many folk at this time of day.

Oh, I followed the fireflies out here. And I grunt, stifling a laugh; it sounds stupid now I say it. But my new friend raises a hand and shakes his head minutely, as if I'd confessed my reservations out loud.

I understand. And your curiosity does your credit, my friend. Besides, he raises an eyebrow, maybe they wanted you to see this?

I don't know how to respond to that.

They're tiny creatures, says the Groundskeeper as one firefly detaches itself from the cloud to circle his capped head slowly; he raises a kind hand towards its light and smiles as his eyes follow the insect. But who knows what they think?

Again, I have no idea how to respond. This sounds like Theology.

Are you a man of Faith, Mr. Roth? Well, that's definitely Theology; this would normally make me wary, but I find myself thinking about it.

No, not really. The Groundskeeper nods, not looking my way; the firefly still has his attention. I was raised as a Devout Atheist. I grin to myself; my mother would be proud. These days, even though I have no Religion, I find it hard to dismiss everyone else's.

Good grief, have I become Agnostic while I wasn't paying attention? A few more fireflies have drifted our way; it must be the warmth.

It's good to be open-minded, my companion concedes. How does it go? "Only the madman is absolutely certain".

That's good, I'll have to remember it. I meet zealots of both persuasions occasionally. I'm just as uncomfortable with unshakeable Scientists as I am immovable Evangelists; both are Fundamentalists in my book.

The rest of the fireflies have moved to surround us. They seem to like you, Indigo. There is a sense that we are deep underwater. Or among the stars.

This is awesome.

The Groundskeeper waves an arm, perhaps in farewell, as the insects retreat to the flag; I'm uncertain of the causal relationship of this. Deprived of their light, my eyes struggle to adjust; the silhouette opposite me chuckles kindly.

But they're fickle, and easily scared, like all simple creatures.

The moment has passed. My instincts tell me it's time to get back indoors.

The Groundskeeper steps back into the sand trap and retrieves his rake. I hope you'll excuse me, but I must get back to my work.

Of course. Nice to meet you! I retreat across the green with a cheery wave, but stop to fish about in my pocket. Retrieving a quarter that shines with darting points of light, I creep beneath the fireflies and drop it into the cup at the base of the flag with a clink. I feel this deserves an explanation; my actions often do.

Life is full of surprises, but it's nice to add to them. There's no reply. I shrug, and raise my voice a little, Whoever putts out first tomorrow will find a small-but-shiny surprise.

The laugh drifts across from the bunker, I knew the fireflies liked you for a reason!

I stroll towards the woods, and offer up a cheery, Maybe they did!

That's the spirit!

As I retreat to the clubhouse, the moment feels as elusive as the Groundskeeper's handshake. By the time I find the back lawn again, I have a gossamer memory of my walk in the cold night air. As I reach the back door, I notice that my cigar has gone out. How did that happen? And my feet are cold; how long have I been out here?

I rejoin the boom boom of the wedding, pleased to be back in the warm.

Back in the now, I smile at the indistinct memory, a fragment of my life. I blink, and it's gone again. Looking around, I'm still alone out here.

As I walk back to the wedding reception, I take a final drag on the cohiba.

Do you like my fireflies?


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012

Four Wooden Legs In The Air

I'm cold. The water is waist deep. The toolbox is heavy.

Well, this didn't end well, I say sourly. Beside me, Max Tunguska hefts his largest hammer from one hand to the other.

End? he says, raising his eyebrows. We're not out of the woods yet, mate. Max looks around his flooded lounge and corrects himself. Bayou, he mutters darkly.

Behind us, the torrent of water continues to rush down the carpeted stairs. She's going to kill us, he states cheerily.

Your wife?

His sofa floats past us. Yep.

I consider this. What, worse than that time with the artillery firework?

His TV floats past us. Yep.

Shame you don't have a basement, I observe, then all this water could be downstairs.

He looks sideways at me.

I do have a basement. He sighs, and adds absently, I hope my experiments don't get out.

I'm too nervous to ask what he's working on down there, but I think one of them just moved past my leg. I drop the toolbox and move backwards, looking vainly for something to stand on. What was that?

Relax, it was just the guinea pig, my friend says, pointing. I follow his finger and watch as a mighty rodent, almost a foot long, swims for the window ledge. It curses vehemently in what sounds like Swedish.

He can swim? I ask, though it sounds quite reasonable; I'm probably trying to take my mind off things. He's a big lad.

He can surf when there's a tide. Max looks about the flooded ruin of his house and adds quietly, He can play the banjo too. He pauses. Remind me how this happened?

We tried to fix your dripping shower head. It can only have been a few minutes ago.

Right. And we cut through that big copper pipe, because?... he leaves the question hanging.

Well, we had to! It was full of water!

He sighs and nods. On reflection, I think it was the rising main.

Wow, that sounds technical. And I take it that's a bad thing? My lack of plumbing experience probably should have disqualified me from helping my friend. His own lack should have disqualified him from asking me. That's the trouble with evil geniuses; boundless ambition.

He looks round suddenly, and swings wildly with the hammer; it splashes through empty water. With a hint of alarm in his voice he growls, OK, something just moved past me.

Was it not the guinea pig again?

From the window ledge, I can hear the sound of a banjo being tuned. It starts to pick out Oh My Darling Clementine. Never mind.

Decisively, Max points to the nearby table; it's ten feet long, six feet wide, heavily set, and has yet to be moved by the water. Blueprints and post-it notes teem on its dry surface. Turn that over and we'll sail out of here on it. I nod and move to the table, grunting as I tip it onto its side, scattering papers. I start to flip it onto its back, and suddenly buoyancy does the rest.

The inverted table looks solid and stable, floating there with its four wooden legs in the air; this could work. As I climb up onto its underside, there is a scream behind me. Quicker than I would credit, and in flurry of splashes, my friend is squatting in our makeshift raft beside me, a look of panic on his face.

I play it cool.

So, what experiments did you have downstairs? I ask amiably. As he considers the question, a terrifying leviathan violently breaches the surface of the water at the other end of the lounge.

There is a terrified exclamation in Swedish, a sickening wooden crunch and the music stops.

Seconds later, the water is calm again. Not a ripple.

We look at each other.

Roth, he says flatly, I think we're gonna need a bigger boat.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012

Making It Past The Landmines

Today starts as it always does, with coffee, cereal, the breakfast show, and my horoscope.

As I munch on spoonfuls of malty cereal with added banana and strawberries, I flip through the newspaper. I hurry past pages of dry news, and wrestle with several colourful inserted supplements until I locate the Lifestyle section. To the left of a full-page article on bowel-cleansing spa holidays in The Maldives, I find the list of zodiac constellations.

Here we go. Scorpio:

Step away from your responsibilites today, Scorpio! This is a day to kick back and relax after recent troubles. Enjoy some time to yourself and recharge those physical and emotional batteries. Go on, you deserve it!

I lower the paper. Well, that sounds like my kind of thing. It has been a trying few weeks. I've been craving some decent downtime. Actually, it sounds wonderful. But no, there's a lot to do today. It's a luxury I can't really afford after a few days off work sick, however tempting it is.

I pick the paper up again, and notice a second paragraph for Scorpio.

But beware, Scorpio! The call of the office will be strong. Don't forget what a battlefield it can be - pointless meetings, unpleasant politics, idiotic edicts, endless red tape, and the relentless demands of people who respect neither your skills nor results. Screw that! You'll thank yourself tonight if you resist.

Wow, that's unusually specific. And colourful. And how did I miss it the first time? But it changes nothing; it's too easy to get behind and spend days fighting your way back up to date. I have to go to work, no matter what my horoscope says.

Hey, there's more. And it definitely wasn't here a moment ago.

Not convinced? What if we admitted that the "day to kick back" was actually a bit of a smoke screen? The truth is, there is an inauspicious planetary alignment today, and you'll find yourself coming up empty on all fronts; family, work, finances, friendship, and love.

Not a good day for love? Well, dammit!

Face facts Scorpio, this is not a day to venture out into the world. Carpe diem? Forget it. Make any effort to seize the day, and it'll be two steps forward, five steps back. All. Bloody. Day. Come bedtime, you'll be a shattered wreck of a man, wrung dry like an old dishmop.

Good grief, when you put it like that...

In fact, did we mention that your car battery is dead? Or that there's a Venezualan sniper taking potshots from the top of the nearby block of flats? And that you'll be run down, trampled and gored by a rogue rhino as soon as you step onto the pavement?

I sigh and toss the paper aside.

And that's if you make it past the landmines!

Some days the universe does its best to tell you something.

I find it's usually a good idea to pay attention.

I finish my coffee, call in sick, and head back to bed.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010/2012

Less Squinting Of The Eye

Today, there is grapefruit for breakfast.

I wonder idly who did the shopping. I like grapefruit, but I prefer my breakfast experience to involve less sourness. Less pursing of the lips. Less squinting of the eye.

I pick up the swollen yellow fruit and give it an experimental sniff.

And then I move my nose closer, and smell it slower, longer.

It's 1972. I am four years old, and sat happily in the child seat of a wire-frame shopping trolley. My mother is pushing it through the local supermarket in the Westside area of town. We come here every Thursday morning. I'm moving backwards as she walks and chatters to me, but this seems to make everything a little more exciting; new shapes and colours drift into view constantly from both sides, and everything begs to be picked up.

I smile as only a child can.

Suddenly, I'm aware of a sharp smell, a scent I'm unfamiliar with. I wrinkle my nose, and look up at my mother. Seeing my expression, she frowns momentarily before understanding dawns across her thirty-something face. She points to a pile of huge yellow fruit, and tells me it's called grapefruit, and that it's nice.

Back in the now, I smile at the memory.

But I'm not the only one with sharp fruit for breakfast.

Next to me, sat at the table with an unrolled set of tools, is my best friend Max. He has several grapefruit in front of him, all of which appear to be frozen. A series of electrodes are implanted into each in turn, which are connected via a misty container of liquid nitrogen to a large hotplate. The red-hot metal square fair bristles with a stack of sizzling, quickly-crisping bacon, powered only by the electricity from his super-conducting grapefruit array.

The loopy arch-genius looks anxiously at some kind of voltmeter, and cheeses a grin as he scribbles down some numbers.

I don't think he's going to eat the grapefruit.

But I don't fancy the bacon's chances.

At the other end of the table is Yavin. The badger engineer, already in his overalls, is cutting into his own grapefruit with a folding knife. His flat cap sits beside him on the tablecloth; it's bad form to wear it at the table, tho not to bring it with him.

After a few swift, precise cuts, my black-and-white companion tucks into the grapefruit with a spoon. His nose twitches and his eye winks involuntarily as he chews the juicy flesh of the fruit. And I'm pretty sure I can just hear his toes wiggling beneath the table.

I know that badgers love Bergman, but they also love citrus fruit.

And at least I now know who did the shopping.

I take another sniff of my grapefruit, and I'm again transported momentarily back through the decades.

Grapefruit are nice, Indigo.

As I slice my breakfast in half and fuss around the edges, loosening the segments, I reflect that it only took me twenty years to realise that my mother was right.

But that's okay; it happens a lot.

Most things you have to learn for yourself.

And these things take time.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011/2012

The Beast Is Unpredictable

I’m very big on Courtesy.

Ask anyone. Seriously. A please, a thank you, the free and useful oil that makes the day’s machines turn and tick; I approve, appreciate and apply myself to the practice.

And today, I find myself wanting to say thank you.


After three and a half years, I've hit a milestone that I’ve had my eye on a for a while; this blog has finally received twenty thousand unique visits.

What that means is that when someone visits and wanders round various pages reading for a while, it all counts as them making a single visit. It’s a nice measure to my mind, though to be fair, my mind is its own beast and somewhat unpredictable and fickle.

And so, to each and every one of you, I say thank you.

Thank you for reading.
Thank you for enjoying the tales.
Thank you for laughing at the pictures.
Thank you for smiling when it hits the spot.
Thank you for commenting, even when it doesn’t.
And for supporting.
And for poking fun.
And for playing along.
And for occasionally cajoling me into action.

I’ve said it before, but this is a dumb old pursuit if nobody is listening. But you do, and it means the world to me. And together, we’ve helped a great gang grown; iDifficult/Max, Abbey, King, Yavin, Hoth, Sollust, Dantoo, Bear and Clarice. Even a confused, cross-dressing T-101.

So, thank you for making a small space in your day for me, even when I take advantage and steal more than a little of your time. I must confess, I am brevity impaired; ladies, please note.

I’m having fun here.

Thank you for joining the fun.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012

Definitely Not My Water

In a rare brush with reality, I'm driving through my home town.

I'm on my way home for the evening, and my social diary is wide open. Again.

I glance by chance to my right as I pass through the high street, and notice that there's a movie playing that I'd like to see. Which one isn't important, but before I realise what I'm doing, and with more spontaneity than is my norm, I'm pulling into a parking space right outside the theatre. What a piece of luck.

I walk inside and talk to the young fella on the main desk. He tells me that the movie is in half an hour, give or take a few minutes for adverts. Hey, not bad! My evening is taken care of, but I've half an hour to kill.

It reminds me about trying to fill up a jar with rough stones. They reach the top, but leave a lot of space.

I wander across the street to the fish and chip shop. Checking the menu, I see that they serve scampi. I adore scampi, and haven't had any in years. And while it doesn't totally agree with my current dieting regime (going well, thanks for asking), it seems too good a chance to miss. As I pay, the woman serving tells me they always cook it fresh, and it'll be five or six minutes until it's ready.

I'm thinking about the jar again, and how I've filled up much of the spare space with smaller stones.

Feeling rather proud of myself, but feeling the call of nature after a long drive, I wander next door to the pub to sneakily use their toilet. As I step inside the unusually quiet bar, the barmaid gives me a cheery smile and asks me what I'm having. This wasn't the plan, but I spy my favourite beer on tap.

What the hell, I have time. A quick pint.


She draws me the pint, and I take long, refreshing draught. Marvellous. But I'm reminded of my pressing need to use the facilities. I ask the barmaid where it is, and she points me up the stairs.

I head up, and once again marvel about the metaphorical jar representing my evening. I feel that in these few spare minutes, I'm filling most of the remaining spaces up with sand.

I laugh as I empty my bladder, imagining I'm filling the finest of spaces in the jar up with water. Not my water you understand; that would be gross. It's a metaphor, remember? But now the jar is most definitely full.

I head back down and noting the time, I pass a few pleasantries with the bar staff as I drain my pint. Delicious, the best I've had in ages.

I then head next door just as my food hits the plate. It's incredibly good, light breadcrumbs with a perfectly-cooked seafood centre. The chips are crisp and golden.

That done, I make my way back to the cinema and buy my ticket.

And flop into my seat, resolving the final recursion, just as the movie starts.

Two hours later, my mission accomplished, I head home.

What a great night. From nothing, I filled my time with random events which all dove-tailed beautifully. Not a moment was wasted, I enjoyed some wonderful hot food and cold beer, and made it home by bedtime.

Sometimes things just fall together. You can't plan it.

Such a shame that the movie stank.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011/2012

Or Cold With Custard

I’m not a morning person.

It's early morning, and I’m in a well-known fast food restaurant.

Let’s call it McDonalds.

The young fella behind the desk is gazing at me patiently as I wonder what to order from the breakfast menu; I suspect his heart is back home in bed. But he wears a cheery smile, and has clearly been well trained. The row of stars on his badge gleam their agreement, though I have no idea what each represents; one of them might be for scrubbing the toilets.

I hope he’s washed his hands.

Do you have pies yet?

I know damned well that company’s unique, deep-fried pies are not on the breakfast menu, but it’s worth asking. They sometimes prepare a few ready for the shift to daytime menu.

Yes Sir! They’re just ready. I notice that he doesn’t glance to check; I like this guy, he’s quietly professional. Even his cap is on straight.

What do you have?

What pies, Sir? His smiles proudly and unconsciously touches the brim of the cap. Our standard apple and cinnamon.

I like Pie. Meat, fruit, whatever. Pie is important. Some light crust, or flaky pastry, maybe even a crumble. Plenty of filling, hot and seasoned, or cold with custard. While my mind is elsewhere, I notice that my mouth is asking another question.

Do you have blueberry?

It’s straight from the realm of wishful thinking, but having had one of their blueberry pies in the past, I’ve often hoped for their return. The lad smiles indulgently.

No Sir, just our standard apple and cinnamon.

I frown. Shame. Your blueberry ones were excellent.

They really were amazing. The banana pies I was indifferent for, but the blueberry ones were the nicest they ever did, even better than the mincemeat and custard ones they do every Christmas.

Blueberry, Sir? I’m not sure I remember those.

He really is well trained. His statement wonders whether I’m confused, mistaken or just pain lying. But his eyes are clear and friendly. Again, professional.

Yep. A few years ago, I guess, but they were lovely.

I wonder idly when it was?

Perhaps they were before my time, Sir? When was it?

It’s not intended as a slight, and I take it as meant; I’m told I have an honest face, so this is probably genuine interest. There’s nobody behind me, so we have time for a flashback.

I’m in Birmingham, in my university days. I’m lighter, fitter, and spottier. My hair is long, and I’m dressed in a white vest, a gobsmacker of an Hawaiian shirt, and scruffy turquoise jogger bottoms. I’m sitting alone in the restaurant in the city centre, contemplating the blueberry pie in front of me.

It’s cool to the touch, and I hazard a bite. And burn my mouth on the scalding fruit. Cursing, I jerk back and squirt more of the indigo purée onto my arm. Fruit burns are painful, as they don’t stop ‘til the fruit’s gone. But after a moment’s work with a tissue, a gulp of drink and an ice cube, I forget my discomfort and decide that the pie tastes really good.

And burn myself again on the next bite.

Back in the now, I realise that this was over twenty years ago. Have I really been pining for a deep-fried blueberry pie for all that time?

My focus falls on the waiting youth; he’s not yet twenty. This bothers me enormously. I easily resist the urge to go Obi-Wan on him as say,

I’ve not had a blueberry pie since… Oh, since before you were born.

The air of wisdom I can handle. But maybe I’m not ready to be old enough to be his dad. Or a crazy old hermit. Actually, there’s no maybe about it. I give him a humble shrug.

I forget. But like you say, before your time, I finish weakly, feeling very old all of a sudden. He notes my discomfort and cheers me along with an upbeat,

So, an apple pie, Sir? Cup of coffee, maybe?

I nod thankfully, blessing his good manners, and we make the transaction, ending with a typical exchange of well-intentioned pleasantries.

I choose a table by the window, and sit to watch the world go by.

The coffee is good, though the not-blueberry pie feels cool to the touch as I absently slide it from its box.

I take the first bite, and suddenly wish I’d ordered an iced drink.

I’m not a morning person.

But, despite an extra twenty years of wisdom, I think I'd find one of these damned things to be dangerous at any time of day.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011/2012
Blueberry picture blatantly stolen from Artisan Lighthouse

Merely Distant And Deceptive

It's a beautiful sunny day, the birds are singing, life is good.

And I'm so angry I could just spit.

I've always hated waiting for the bus.

Twenty five years ago, my girlfriend Avril loves to travel by bus. When she asks me out, she says we should go to town. As a healthy lad, I think nothing of walking the three miles to the mall, but she seems quite excited by the prospect of a bus ride together. So I scrape together the fare - I'm healthy, not wealthy - and we head out into the bright sunshine of our teens. Half an hour later, we're still waiting by the bus stop. We chat, we laugh, we enjoy each other's company, but inside I'm annoyed and disappointed for our first date.

The seed of discontent is sown.

Back in the now, cars and cyclists and pedestrians amble past, each making more progress than me. Then my heart skips; do I hear the bus? No, it's just a truck, distant and deceptive. It belches diesel noisily as it eventually rattles past.

Fifteen years ago, I have an interview in a nearby town. My car is off the road - I'm still not wealthy - and despite an offer of a lift from my sister, there's a regular bus service running. So I give myself plenty of time, and head out into the sunshine in my best suit. I wait 45 minutes for the half hourly service, but eventually climb aboard. On the outskirts of our destination, our transport overheats. I can wait for a replacement ride to come and pick us up, but instead I elect to play it safe and walk the last half mile to the interview. I make it on time, but I'm hot, bothered, and somewhat agitated. It's small consolation that I don't want the job.

The seed sprouts green shoots of prejudice towards a limitless sky.

Back in the now, as I stand waiting, I remember a silly press release issued by London Transport in the mid-Eighties. Customers had complained that buses were speeding past them as they waited at the bus stop. Often, the drivers gave them a cheery wave as they did this. The company said, without a hint of irony:

It is not possible for drivers to maintain their schedules if they always stop to pick up passengers.

But I've not even been graced with that bizarre policy today. No buses to be seen. No doubt, in the timeless English manner, three will arrive at once.

Well, I hope they will.

First thing this morning, I decide to change the shape of my day. The sun is shining, and I really want to enjoy some downtime. So I take a day off work, have a leisurely breakfast, shower, dress, and head out in search of a decent cup of coffee.

For some reason, driving does not appeal.

Today, I'd like to be driven.

Checking my pockets, I'm surprised to find I'm carrying money - I'm still not wealthy but behave like royalty in this respect most of the time - and decide to take the bus into town. I'm surprised by this out-of-character decision, and pause for a moment. Why would I do this? I rationalise that it's a bit too warm to trek the two miles by foot, and besides, I'd rather get back quickly to enjoy that downtime in the back garden I promised myself.

I dismiss the past and head out.

Two minutes later, I'm at the bus stop.

Half an hour later, I'm still waiting.

I'm quietly annoyed, and that fact really bothers me.

As an individual, I'm extraordinarily patient. But this is not a matter of patience. If I get to the bus stop and find that the next scheduled service is an hour away, I'll patiently wait an hour and take it on the chin. But getting to the bus stop five minutes early for a scheduled service and then waiting an hour drives me crazy.

Especially if they're supposed to run every ten minutes.

The sheer unreliability gnaws at my calm.

Back in the now, an hour has passed.

In the park opposite, there's a football game going on. Kids play on the swings. Cyclists and cars and pedestrians seem to be moving faster now, but perhaps it's my imagination. Life teems around me, swirling its Brownian way through the day, interacting and experiencing and progressing.

But I'm standing still.

The flower of outrage blossoms, and I don't care for the smell.

I head home to enjoy my corner of the world in the sunshine.

I've always hated waiting for the bus.

Sometimes the bus is late.

Sometimes you wait forever and then three arrive at once.

But sometimes? Sometimes the bus just doesn't arrive at all.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010/2012