Two people live on the outskirts of a town, one on the North side, the other on the South. They both walk to work. They both have jobs on the opposite side of the town to where they live. There is but one route which allows them to walk to and from work safely. Both people need to be at work at 9 am. One of the two is fit and athletic, the other, slightly older in years, lacks that brisk pace often synonymous with the morning walker, instead, they are easily spotted as the one with the shuffle. It is a fact that both of these people will cross paths each and every morning. They both walk the same route, albiet in opposite directions. The fast paced walker sets off twenty minutes before they need be on the South side, the shuffler allows thirty-five before they reach the North of the town. The walk to work is a boring affair, rarely punctuated by scandal or intrigue. The walk home from work is quite often a cause for celebration, the end of another day. I too walk to work. Each morning I notice the same people, like the two mentioned above, walking to and from work. Crossing roads at the same point, giving emotionless greetings to the same shopkeepers, holding the same briefcase or umbrella. There is a small space of time during which we all are in the same vicinity, as we converge on the centre of town, with four or five heading North, the others South. I am sure we all see eachother, and that I am not alone in wondering where everyone is off to, or what the rest of their day looks like. If it wasn’t so frowned upon, i’d quite like to follow a few, although now that I have written that it does sound terribly strange. I suppose I shall just wonder. As the mind often does, mine has created odd and somewhat unrealistic roles for these, the ‘morning walkers’. There is a child Lawyer, dealing only with clients under 14, a well dressed Butcher, pinstriped suit and trench coat. A male nurse, 6ft 4” who obviously has never spoken to another human, bar his mother, in 8 years. And so on and so on. I’m sure these people have menial jobs, much like myself, but one can’t help but conjure something else up. I was sparked into telling you all of this after seeing Paul Willaert’s image above, from his essay, Alive in the City.

Two people live on the outskirts of a town, one on the North side, the other on the South. They both walk to work. They both have jobs on the opposite side of the town to where they live. There is but one route which allows them to walk to and from work safely. Both people need to be at work at 9 am.

One of the two is fit and athletic, the other, slightly older in years, lacks that brisk pace often synonymous with the morning walker, instead, they are easily spotted as the one with the shuffle.

It is a fact that both of these people will cross paths each and every morning. They both walk the same route, albiet in opposite directions. The fast paced walker sets off twenty minutes before they need be on the South side, the shuffler allows thirty-five before they reach the North of the town.

The walk to work is a boring affair, rarely punctuated by scandal or intrigue. The walk home from work is quite often a cause for celebration, the end of another day.

I too walk to work. Each morning I notice the same people, like the two mentioned above, walking to and from work. Crossing roads at the same point, giving emotionless greetings to the same shopkeepers, holding the same briefcase or umbrella. There is a small space of time during which we all are in the same vicinity, as we converge on the centre of town, with four or five heading North, the others South. I am sure we all see eachother, and that I am not alone in wondering where everyone is off to, or what the rest of their day looks like. If it wasn’t so frowned upon, i’d quite like to follow a few, although now that I have written that it does sound terribly strange. I suppose I shall just wonder.

As the mind often does, mine has created odd and somewhat unrealistic roles for these, the ‘morning walkers’. There is a child Lawyer, dealing only with clients under 14, a well dressed Butcher, pinstriped suit and trench coat. A male nurse, 6ft 4” who obviously has never spoken to another human, bar his mother, in 8 years. And so on and so on.

I’m sure these people have menial jobs, much like myself, but one can’t help but conjure something else up.

I was sparked into telling you all of this after seeing Paul Willaert’s image above, from his essay, Alive in the City.

  •  

BACK   •   NEXT