Rain, rush hour, Central London. I was sitting on a rather high stool at Starbucks, sharing the world’s smallest table with a couple of strangers eating scones. They wished me a happy new year; I raised my egg nog latte, and wished them back. My lunch break was rather short today. New year, same Sunday shift.
I saw the fireworks on TV yesterday, and heard them through the window. I ate chocolate, drunk diet coke, and decided I was happy.
The first breakfast of the year was a chocolate croissant and a bitter latte from Pret. I started Hotel World by Ali Smith on the bus to work, and made it to page 8 before deciding it will be a brilliant book. I smiled and looked outside. It was raining. I did not have an umbrella. The view was breathtaking, why would I want anything to block it?
It is amazing how much hope a new year can bring. A fresh start. A promise that this will be the year that some things will change, while others will remain. The illusion that one can have control over these things.
I have not had time yet to grasp the changes in my life. I have been on a treadmill, somewhere between walking and running, with the progress only showing on the small screen instead of real distance.
I intend to sit down in the end of the week, and regroup. Rethink things. Plan the change. Until then, it’s the exhale after the inhale before.