I was thinking last week that my blog – and, therefore, my life – has become perhaps a bit too relationship-centric; I seem to have lost something of myself, that I used to have when I started this, and when people read it and loved it. I thought and I realised: it was adventures; I used to do silly little things, and I dug that. This was probably last summer. Well, the winter's been long, but sunny days are here again, and it's probably time to get back to adventuring…
But like these first sunny days, it's a tentative step back to life, and the outdoors, and the energy of blossoms and flower-openings and blooms: the hibernating bear awakens slowly. So for my first week it was small adventures I sought. On Wednesday I found one.
I was rushing for the train – as I always am; it's apparently the only way I know how to catch one – and had about thirty seconds to reach the platform. I made good time sprinting through the concourse after buying my ticket, weaving in and out of women in suits, but saw to my dismay an almighty queue of people waiting to get through the ticket barrier and I knew instantly that I would never make it. So, without halting my charge, I ploughed on, took a sharp veer to the left, and heroically hurdled the not-insubstantial locked gate at an unused checkpoint. A quick u-turn along platform eight and I'm feeling good. A shout behind me, though: a railway official in hot pursuit. I wave my tickets in the air and shout something about having to catch my train. Ahead of me another official takes in the scene – I swear, I see his brain-cogs working as his mind starts to piece together the information that will lead him to the inevitable conclusion: "I should stop this guy." I speed up and am past him before he reaches it, though. Up the stairs, then, around the corner and out of sight – removing my jacket, for disguise – and bursting through a bustle of commuters, who I hope are providing me with camouflage, losing my pursuer. Down the stairs, onto 12D, and into my waiting train, breathing heavily and hunched down into a newspaper, and willing the doors to close before the group of be-hatted conductors and ticket-men and guards come a-searchin'. But blessed beeping sounds and doors slide shut and I'm on my way. Adrenaline. Happiness. Adventure. I've done something naughty, and run away from a man in a uniform, and leapt a barrier, and made my escape. It's brilliant.
I also drank a glass of wine this week, and ate some chicken. First time I've done either in about three years.
Rory Miller is a man. Oh yes.
But like these first sunny days, it's a tentative step back to life, and the outdoors, and the energy of blossoms and flower-openings and blooms: the hibernating bear awakens slowly. So for my first week it was small adventures I sought. On Wednesday I found one.
I was rushing for the train – as I always am; it's apparently the only way I know how to catch one – and had about thirty seconds to reach the platform. I made good time sprinting through the concourse after buying my ticket, weaving in and out of women in suits, but saw to my dismay an almighty queue of people waiting to get through the ticket barrier and I knew instantly that I would never make it. So, without halting my charge, I ploughed on, took a sharp veer to the left, and heroically hurdled the not-insubstantial locked gate at an unused checkpoint. A quick u-turn along platform eight and I'm feeling good. A shout behind me, though: a railway official in hot pursuit. I wave my tickets in the air and shout something about having to catch my train. Ahead of me another official takes in the scene – I swear, I see his brain-cogs working as his mind starts to piece together the information that will lead him to the inevitable conclusion: "I should stop this guy." I speed up and am past him before he reaches it, though. Up the stairs, then, around the corner and out of sight – removing my jacket, for disguise – and bursting through a bustle of commuters, who I hope are providing me with camouflage, losing my pursuer. Down the stairs, onto 12D, and into my waiting train, breathing heavily and hunched down into a newspaper, and willing the doors to close before the group of be-hatted conductors and ticket-men and guards come a-searchin'. But blessed beeping sounds and doors slide shut and I'm on my way. Adrenaline. Happiness. Adventure. I've done something naughty, and run away from a man in a uniform, and leapt a barrier, and made my escape. It's brilliant.
I also drank a glass of wine this week, and ate some chicken. First time I've done either in about three years.
Rory Miller is a man. Oh yes.
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