John's Quavering Pencil

Pastel & Charcoal 08 OCT 2009

I pay for a handful of items at the supermarket, whizzing through the basket only check-out. I barely have enough to fill the single cloth bag that swings rhythmically at my side, as I stride towards my car. The key is in my right hand. I press a couple of times. Two dull flashes of the indicators, two barely audible clicks, a little pressure on the lock, and the hatchback glides upwards in its balletical gesture. A deft flick of the wrist deposits bag into carpet-lined hold. Two short steps and I have the door handle. Body is turning now, bottom in first, into the drivers seat. I retract the left leg, and then the right, twisting my trunk and leaning into the steering wheel, as right hand completes the drill with a satisfying ‘clunk’ of the closed door. It is warm. Finger on electric window button… szzzzzz. My head turns to the right (remember, we are in the UK) and I orient my nose to the breeze. I gaze upon a vista as commonplace to me as the haywain might have been to John Constable two hundred years ago. I used to bicycle to Flatford back in the 1950s.