Ad Infinitum

I went to yoga.
7 in the class. A tattooed woman who should know better, a Polish woman with a long plait that is going to be teaching next term, two women who are of my age but without the flabby thighs that I present when wearing shorts. And a couple who look like they have come from a religious sect in Pennsylvania.
My balance leaves a lot to be desired. But I can now get my head on my feet whilst sitting with the soles of said feet together. I know one shouldn’t be competitive in yoga but Godammit I am. With myself at least.
I came out without my phone or wallet so I went straight home. Driving slowly in case I got nicked again by the yellow van that sits snidely in the lay-by just after the pub.
Little Solly is missing Jim. Keeps running round looking for him. And twice I’ve fallen asleep and called for the old git only to realise that he’s four hundred miles away having the time of his life in his birth city.
I whipped off my hot yoga outfit, washed it, hung it over the bath like a student in a bedsit and set off for my vigorous constitutional.

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I have red ones, blue ones, green ones and beige.
Black ones, brown ones, patent ones and suede .
I have leather ones, canvas ones, strappy ones and flip-flops,
Wedges, sling backs, sandals, pumps, stilettos, boots and clip-clops.
I have ankle boots, deck shoes, espadrilles and sneakers.
Flat ones, high ones, platform ones and peep toes .
But I wasn’t always that well heeled.
Shoes lasted until they didn’t. You got what you were given. And you were grateful for it.
As we waited for the tube train, I would tightly grasp my mothers fingers as I stared at the advert on the wall of Aldgate East Station. Two children holding hands as they set off, in their Start Rite shoes, with nothing but each other and a road disappearing into the distance, winding its way to their future. How lonely life looked.
Start Rite shoes, with it’s Royal seal of approval walking their way to happiness since 1792.
Shoes, played a big part in my childhood. From the ballet shoes I yearned for and never got, to the Gum boots, black rubber, which kept the rain out and the cold in.
Now as I walk the lanes I wear a pair of purple ‘Nike Free Three’ trainers. They are falling apart but are oh so comfortable. They have a rip in the back but my feet can feel the ground. For my 65th birthday the dawter bought me a pair of luminous orange replacements. They are slightly wider so my old feet can spread and spread. I wear them for best.
I have black and white trainers, pink and grey trainers and flip flops. My father would have had something to say about that.

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The rain, as predicted came down big. I donned socks and thick trainers, a hoodie and leggings, yoga top and sweatshirt, over which I put a lightweight mac. Zipped up and went clockwise out of the drive.
‘Go with the flow.’ said Cherry Jarrett ‘Go with the flow.’
So I went with the flow. The rain dripping off the leaves, puddles and collar doves. Shrilly singing blackbirds, and lots of rabbits hopping and disappearing into their burrows.
I walked steadily, heard foot steps behind me and it was the next door neighbour..
‘Hello stranger.’ He said.
‘Run – don’t wreck your rhythm.’ I said. And he jogged on.
He disappeared as I walked past the newly dug ditch, past the wood yard that smelt of sweet newly sawn Beech. Up the hill and the rained stopped.
Going clockwise meant down hill was where it was up and up is where it was down. Clockwise is a harder walk.
There are three distinct phases. Through ‘France’ with long low houses and fields, down the avenue, through the rocks, up past the farms. down to frogspawn bend, up to the wood yard where it gets dark. The road winds up hill, it’s shaded by tall, old trees, and the road narrows. One wind turbine to the left a bluebell patch to the right. Then a bright uphill stretch to the pub.
This morning I was reminded of my mother.

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