Every morning as I stand by the sink filling my kettle, sleep still settled in my eyes, I look out of my first floor window as life passes by below. There is very little I can depend on seeing; random people heading for random places. There seems a singular lack of anything routine, anything of regularity. That was until some weeks ago.
One sunny morning I noticed a rather large, unfit looking woman trying her very best to do an impression of someone running. She was clearly in some pain as she forced her body to go to places it seemed wholly unwilling to go. I remember admiring her
determination, her lack of self-consciousness and her drive. I also remembered thinking that it would probably be the first and last time I witnessed her huffing and puffing her way up and down the street. Could I have been more mistaken? The next day she was there again, barely shuffling herself into a run. And the next; and the next. And as night follows day she continued to punish her body on a daily and then weekly basis, dragging herself and her body unwillingly into exercise.
My admiration had blossomed into an altogether deeper sense of respect. And considering that from my window view I can track at least 100 metres of her circuit, I can testify that she is making real progress: she is now actually running. Even the snow of Thursday morning could not dampen her enthusiasm. In the passing weeks she is moving more elegantly by the day; she has shed at least half a stone and seems to have replaced her permanent grimace with an occasional smile.
It has inspired me to realise that I should bite the bullet and haul my oversized west of Scotland/Punjabi posterior back down to the gym. If I showed a fifth of her resolve I'd be back down to my fighting weight, my heart would be pumping more efficiently and my clothes would fit. From now on I shall make an appointment with my window and silently cheer her on. Jogging lady is my new hero.
Let me eat cakeI was up early the other morning for an 8.30 meeting. As I have grown older I have become keener to utilise the early morning for work. I suppose I need less sleep these days. And there's something so fulfilling about feeling that some work has been completed by 9.30am, when most others in my business have yet to arrive at work.
So, I found myself with an hour to kill in the centre of town and decided on a cup of coffee. And, uncharacteristically for me, a slice of cake. I have no great sweet tooth but in the past there were times that, if the cake was good enough and the coffee the right strength, there were few things nicer than coffee and cake. I have ignored cake for many years and I feel now it is time to re-engage.
I sat outside Maison Bertaux with my coat on, the resplendent sun shining, and tucked into a big slice of Victoria sponge. The light sponge, the slightly sharp and sweet raspberry jam and cream filling: glorious. It was a beautiful way to start any day. I have now decided to forgo at least one meal a week and replace it with cake. This seems reasonable and fair.
I am very excited about the prospect of all the cake out there I could ingest, all the forgotten cake opportunities. Date and walnut cake, rich and nutty; chocolate sponge; and even the densely fruity Dundee cake, which perhaps requires forgoing two meals rather than just one. Yes, I am about to enter the "cake" period of my life and I am very excited. Although the perennial unanswered question still troubles me. Jaffa cake: cake or biscuit?
Spare a thought for the lonely goalkeeperLoneliness is a multi-faceted state of being. There is the implication of solitude, a hermit like existence; yet many people are lonely in a crowd, alone when surrounded by humans. Much like a goalkeeper.
I was at the football on Wednesday night and it is possibly the most amazing game I have ever witnessed. Arsenal, my team, were hosting Tottenham Hotspur, their fierce north London rivals. Tottenham had just sacked their old manager and signed Harry Redknapp to lift their team from the bottom of the division. One the way up to the stadium one could feel the history in the air, history waiting to be written. And what history.
The final score was 4-4; the game had twisted and turned, it seemed won, then lost and eventually as our breaths had been taken away the final whistle blew. And our keeper looked like the loneliest man on the planet. He had let four goals in, he had allowed a two goal lead to dissolve into an eight goal draw. He has been a stalwart for us all season, making incredible saves and keeping us in games we might have lost. Manuel Almunia has been a rock between our sticks. That will all be forgotten. As the fans rake over the still warm coals of last night's game they will inevitably blame him for Tottenham and the game's first goal. Almunia was beaten from about 45 yards by a whipping, dipping chipping shot from a player called David Bentley, who used to play for Arsenal. The rest of the drama unfolded around him over the following 90 minutes.
At the game's end I felt for our keeper, as he trudged off, unable to make eye contact with either his team-mates or opponents. And, although I will never play at that level, as a former goalkeeper for St Matthews Boys Club in north Glasgow, I have felt a little of the pain, a little of the loneliness that Almunia will be feeling now. I'd just like him to know, he's not alone.
Just the ticket for an urban wind-upA traffic warden has just placed a ticket on a car. A man passes by. The warden turns to the man.
TW: Hello, sir.
Man: Why are you saying hello to me?
TW: No reason, sir. It is a beautiful morning and I thought I would say hello.
Man: Are you trying to wind me up?
TW: No sir. I was only being nice.
Man: You idiot.
TW: Because I said hello?
Man: No, because this is my car you've ticketed.
