message, waking, route

In the gutter.

The adventure of waking up is, I suppose, a bit similar to be being born. Half asleep and half a wake, I find myself remembering fragments of dreams at the same time as I gradually become aware of where I really am. The more conscious I become, the less I remember the details of what I was dreaming about. It is a pleasant in-between state and I find myself hanging on to it as long as I can.

Sitting outside The Compasses, as we do on sunny days, I look up at a section of sky above the fish and chip shop. On several occasions recently I notice that it is bisected by the vapour trail of an aircraft heading for Gatwick at precisely the same point between roof and chimney stack. I enjoy wondering whether it is the flight on its regular route, or if it just a flight path followed by countless planes. Over my pint I amuse myself with the thought that the almost invisible insect at the end of the long white trail up there is, in fact, a winged cylinder packed with people all with different agenda - a gateau rich in soap opera potential.