backtracking; it's what you do when you can't beat the next op

So, I ended that Thursday (Thursday 20th May, if you've lost track) with a really distinct feeling that I have only just placed. (I also ended it in a taxi because, for all my best efforts to leave in such time as to still be able to catch a bus, I failed because I couldn't find where the damn thing left even though I really should have been able to figure it out).

That feeling is North Acton Station; it dates from the time when Alex and I lived on opposite sides of Hanger Hill, and thus on opposite sides of the Central Line fork, and thus many wonderful conversations were cut short by the cruelties of public transport, and I (it was usually me as she lived on the branch that has way more trains going down it) would dash off her train in mid-sentence and sit on the wall at the end of the platform and think until my train came. (I distinctly recall, during one phase of carting around a tiny notebook specifically for stream-of-consciousness poetry, writing about hoodie monks while sat on that wall one night.) And I'd see her again in another few days or few weeks, and life would go on.

Everything else in that entire week had led up to this thought, but it was that unplaceable feeling that told me I needed to move out of GA asap.



I apologise; I think this entry is secretly twee.