I’m staring down at my exploding belly after a week and a half of homely living in Coldbrook, Nova Scotia. I feel slightly ashamed of letting myself be lazy and eating retarded amounts of food as a reward of our travels since surely the lazy days on the beach in Tuscany were reward enough.
It’s autumn after a very long summer and I remember couriering in London at the same time last year with the brown leaves carpeting The Mall leading up to Buckingham Palace. The wind picked up and pulled the rug of leaves across my cycling path, the ground appeared as if it was running from underneath me. Australia doesn’t have the same kind of autumn, not as colourful, not as chilly, and not as leafy. I was shocked by autumn in London and I am shocked in Nova Scotia.
The diary entries are boring and short without much to write about, we ventured out on our bikes only once, with a 20 km destination, we got 10 km and turned back. Using the roads ill-equipped for cycling and our late departure as an excuse, but really we have just become soft. I do believe that we are at the point where we have to pull up our socks or continue to wilt.
We have slept on the floor for over a year and we have finally reached a place where we can have a mattress but after our first 4 nights of restless sleeping we moved our blankets to the floor and the darkness has lifted from my face as I catch up on sleep. We have made our room we are sleeping in very much reminiscent of our studio in London, with blankets on the floor, clothing piles in corners, and glasses strewn around on ledges. I say that you can take the girl out of Cable Street but you can’t take the Cable Street out of the girl.
I left a friend behind in Cable Street and I think of him now as winter rolls in on London. The dark and frozen hallways of Cable Street studios can seem like a iced jail during the dark months and the dust of 100 years dulls your vision, it becomes quite bleak. The light comes however from the bodies shuffling around under the heavy blankets and scarfs. I always loved hearing the movements of the cable street inhabitants, even being woken up at 4 in the morning to a crowd of 40 under my window all singing old Spanish folk songs to a single guitar. Or the tranny club on a Friday and Saturday night bringing us deep waves of laughter and clogging of heavy heels walking to and fro underneath us. I love when people came knocking for sugar or tobacco, more often tobacco, or the exchanges of skills that needed no repayment. So the deep penetrating chill that my friend will experience this winter in the old factory will be swept aside by the warmth of its people.
I suppose I should say a few more things about Nova Scotia but I am thinking so much about London that it seems only natural to write reflectively. As I have very few obligations here I mostly just potter around, making tea, sleeping in, occasionally jogging, and thinking of things to take the energy out of my legs.