Leaving do

This afternoon, 3-5pm.

I wrote about it four months ago, as follows:


Hurry

1.

When it rains in Manchester we hurry: to get somewhere dry, to give ourselves time to remove coats, shake umbrellas. But there are hazards: puddles, ponds and lakes in the streets, vans spraying those who get too close. The hurrying takes longer than it should: detours around the waters, dodging other hurriers, walking past the annoying guy with the camera. Who needs the gym? Who needs to swim?

2.

At this time of year, the normal rules of timekeeping are set aside. Traffic delays us and everyone else, with their futile efforts, impedes our journeys. Embracing frames, I hopped along Deansgate, seeing bollards and signs not noticed previously. A kind stranger opened the door to a cafe, for rest, for espresso and brownie and some helpful hints. Don't wait for the lift, counting stairs, tripping to the car.

3.

And then next year: all is changing, more than I feared, as much as I hoped, I hope. The horizon of my career still obscured by the snowy mist, revealing only sodden farms and grey stone walls. But there, as everyone reminds me with their questions, the wishes. They now say "after you have gone" which is not the tone I want. A half life deferring soon to be achieving, not resting, advancing to Ithaca.