I turn onto the A1 motorway northbound, setting my mental compass for the airport. I find myself slowing to a crawl and trace the snaking queue of cars and lorries into the far distance. The vehicles get progressively smaller as the line winds its way like a calligraphic brush stroke, this way and that, up to the top of the dark frame that my car windscreen makes (and, through which, I view the world). Time passes… I am now stationary. I left early but the thoughts of coffee and raspberry muffin now begin to fade to the back of my mind; I am trapped in the aftermath of somebody else’s accident. I punch the car radio to the local station and soon hear a description of the massive tailback in which I am embedded. A lorry has toppled in these ferocious winds and spilt its load. Inch by inch I advance. I start to wonder whether I shall reach the airport in time but once I pass the police and the incident vehicle the pace picks up a little.
I park my car and hurry to the arrivals area. I glance at the overhead screen and discover that the plane I am meeting landed 10 minutes ago. I take a pee and then decide that there is no time for a snack at the coffee shop. Disgruntled, I settle for a chocolate bar from the vending machine. She-who-must-not-be-named emerges through the swing doors and I drive home. Her bag did not manage to get itself on the same plane and will be forwarded later.
… It is now Sunday morning. I am pushing my cart around the supermarket, throwing in a couple of pizzas and a loaf of bread. This is a light shop, today. I breeze through the tills and sit on a handy chair while I wait for she-who-must-not-be-named. To pass the time, I take my A6 sketch pad out of my pocket and crack open my .05 drawing pen. I look at the girl working at the check-out and quickly get the shape of her head, suggesting the flowing pony tail as I drape a few lines across her shoulder. Less is more. I should have left it very sparse, but it will have to do. It is a 30 second sketch. I feel myself being careful not to stare too hard at the woman, even though that would be better from an artistic standpoint. I have no wish to get into far-fetched explanations of what I am doing with the security guards. I flip my pad shut and move out in convoy with she-who-must-not-be-named to stow the goods into the boot (= trunk in North America) of my car.
Happy with small things, I make a simple sandwich for my lunch and munch on it contendedly. I wash it down with a glass of milk. Still, I must stop writing with my mouth full. Speak to you later, my dear blogophiles.
John's Quavering Pencil 
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