longer on his wifeâs pavement, was able to realise that heâd travelled quite a way â¦
I started by passing the brewery â that recollection is clear â Valerie still gets a ration of free beer to make up for the ambient scent of brewing. Not that sheâs a beer drinker, of course. Unless terribly pressed. I think she sometimes cooked with it.
Then after the brewery there must have been streets ⦠There were, are streets ⦠houses ⦠mature magnolias ⦠anal-retentive privet and masonry apparently covered with royal icing â¦
His head shook, perhaps only internally, as if heâd been dunked in water and was trying to rid himself of some flowing, cloying burden, the way it filled his ears.
Chiswick High Street is a bit of a walk from Valâs, it takes ⦠usually not as long as it seems to have taken ⦠But I am, at present, in the high street.
But something, lots of somethings, come before that â¦
But I canât recall them â¦
Which is too many buts again.
But Iâm here ⦠The laws of physics dictate that Chiswick must therefore have existed as I passed through it, but was somehow unaware.
He couldnât quite explain how this had happened, but his head â and the rest of him, all the way down to his feet, his totality â was already in the high street and this change of location had taken place apparently in one blank instant and yet â he examined his watch again, as if it would be helpful and informative, when in fact it was only scary â his journey had also definitely taken far too long. He had significantly misplaced himself.
I ⦠I should be feeling concerned perhaps ⦠Iâm not that, though. Iâm not that, either â¦
He flagged a cab, resigned to the fact that the traffic would murder him and only compound his problem, which was lateness, rather than the problem with his interior, which he couldnâtidentify, and the problems with his exterior which were ⦠They were just â¦
Their name is legion. Their name is Rebecca and Lucy, Sophia and ⦠Christ.
His heart pattered. âTothill Street, please.â And he set his fingers to the cabâs door handle almost as if he doubted it would be there.
The driver nodded a consent and Jon climbed in, his limbs more unruly than necessary, right hand clutched around his briefcase as if it were a safe support.
Like gripping the armrests on your seat when your plane hits a storm front â youâre holding on to what may drop and kill you. Something to do with our history as apes â we used to be fine if we hung on tight, so we keep on clinging to ease our tensions.
Of course, if the entire tree was ruined and dropping with you, then youâd be better off letting go â¦
âActually, sorry ⦠I have to get some trousers.â No one but Jon needed to know that and the back of the driverâs head seemed to reflect this truth eloquently. âThat is ⦠Iâll ⦠if you can stop when we see somewhere ⦠Damn ⦠no, there wonât be anywhere open ⦠Unless ⦠you donât know somewhere â¦? An early-morning trouser â¦? Provider â¦? I mean, thatâs ⦠thanks. Tothill Street.â
Jon forced his spine, his intentions, to stop craning forward. He could get there for half-past eight â behind schedule, but before nine â and this would pass and would be OK, if imperfect. He preferred to be in before the busyness, but it would be fine. He was a professional of some rank â he could have done better after all these years, but had a not unnoticeable rank and could deserve the confidence of those with whom he dealt. That was understood. He would overcome the trouser issue. It was not unethical to ask a staff member, maybe, to go and
I started by passing the brewery â that recollection is clear â Valerie still gets a ration of free beer to make up for the ambient scent of brewing. Not that sheâs a beer drinker, of course. Unless terribly pressed. I think she sometimes cooked with it.
Then after the brewery there must have been streets ⦠There were, are streets ⦠houses ⦠mature magnolias ⦠anal-retentive privet and masonry apparently covered with royal icing â¦
His head shook, perhaps only internally, as if heâd been dunked in water and was trying to rid himself of some flowing, cloying burden, the way it filled his ears.
Chiswick High Street is a bit of a walk from Valâs, it takes ⦠usually not as long as it seems to have taken ⦠But I am, at present, in the high street.
But something, lots of somethings, come before that â¦
But I canât recall them â¦
Which is too many buts again.
But Iâm here ⦠The laws of physics dictate that Chiswick must therefore have existed as I passed through it, but was somehow unaware.
He couldnât quite explain how this had happened, but his head â and the rest of him, all the way down to his feet, his totality â was already in the high street and this change of location had taken place apparently in one blank instant and yet â he examined his watch again, as if it would be helpful and informative, when in fact it was only scary â his journey had also definitely taken far too long. He had significantly misplaced himself.
I ⦠I should be feeling concerned perhaps ⦠Iâm not that, though. Iâm not that, either â¦
He flagged a cab, resigned to the fact that the traffic would murder him and only compound his problem, which was lateness, rather than the problem with his interior, which he couldnâtidentify, and the problems with his exterior which were ⦠They were just â¦
Their name is legion. Their name is Rebecca and Lucy, Sophia and ⦠Christ.
His heart pattered. âTothill Street, please.â And he set his fingers to the cabâs door handle almost as if he doubted it would be there.
The driver nodded a consent and Jon climbed in, his limbs more unruly than necessary, right hand clutched around his briefcase as if it were a safe support.
Like gripping the armrests on your seat when your plane hits a storm front â youâre holding on to what may drop and kill you. Something to do with our history as apes â we used to be fine if we hung on tight, so we keep on clinging to ease our tensions.
Of course, if the entire tree was ruined and dropping with you, then youâd be better off letting go â¦
âActually, sorry ⦠I have to get some trousers.â No one but Jon needed to know that and the back of the driverâs head seemed to reflect this truth eloquently. âThat is ⦠Iâll ⦠if you can stop when we see somewhere ⦠Damn ⦠no, there wonât be anywhere open ⦠Unless ⦠you donât know somewhere â¦? An early-morning trouser â¦? Provider â¦? I mean, thatâs ⦠thanks. Tothill Street.â
Jon forced his spine, his intentions, to stop craning forward. He could get there for half-past eight â behind schedule, but before nine â and this would pass and would be OK, if imperfect. He preferred to be in before the busyness, but it would be fine. He was a professional of some rank â he could have done better after all these years, but had a not unnoticeable rank and could deserve the confidence of those with whom he dealt. That was understood. He would overcome the trouser issue. It was not unethical to ask a staff member, maybe, to go and
Similar Books
