A drive

Another bleary day in western England. A land known the world over for poor outdoor environs, and it still takes me aback at how unpleasant it can be. I had an errand that needed running, less than a mile away, and yet I could not bring myself to make the walk. It was simply dreadful out, but this errand could not wait. So I put on my seaman's jumper and overcoat and climbed in the seat of my auto, my 1975 Peugeot. It had been maybe 3 or 4 weeks since I had started her up last, and even then it was only an idling to keep the engine clean. I had no idea whether or not she was fueled, but the thought of trudging about in the snow and ice forced my hand to the ignitor. She whirred a bit and fell through the cycle a few times but finally began to start and lifted the gate for the driveway and was off. The snow had not yet accumulated enough to hamper the driving, and made me second guess whether or not I couldn't just walk. The outside was cold and windy, but having a good walk every few days is immutably good for the body and mind, and I had been remiss ever since the weather turned. As time went by I felt like I had made the proper choice, and every time I slid the window down I was reminded that I am not a young man anymore and too much exposure could be fatal, or at least send me into a sputtering chill for the next several days, which is, I decided neither deserving of my intelligence or my class.

Of course she had fuel in it. The engine has yet to fail me, in the 26 or 27 years I've owned it. Once I got comfortable and resigned myself to the drive I quite enjoyed it. I looked out the window as I turned from Nelson to Fairfax in Broadmead, at this little tree. The tree was a leafy one, one of those broadleaf types that I'm sure anyone else in the room would immediately be able to identify. The tree was about twenty feet tall, its bark was a light brown. It had no visible signs of abuse, be it by human or animal or insect. Its leaves were already down, and it seemed quite alone in its own world; not a single tree was anywhere else in its vicinity, only the hustle of the city. There is a rather large goings on in the area, as it is near the galleries, and so people are walking by hurredly throughout the day. Trees are obviously not self aware, but how strange it would be to exist in a world that you cannot relate to any living being you see. Nor can trees see I suppose.

The remainder of the drive was uneventful, although there was a vagrant outside the store I needed to visit. The man, who introduced himself very loudly and nearly unintelligibly to the entire street corner as 'The Jigger In Charge.' He was dressed in what appeared to be a torn dress shirt with a cheaply made sweatshirt, ripped overcoat, windbreaker, and an undeterminable number of pairs of trousers. He proclaimed a number of racial slurs and various other highly exceptionable affectations about the government and, in particular, its law enforcement branch. To see such sights in my own neighborhood is disturbing, but something must be said about the dedication in this weather. I sincerely believe that even if I were a drooling lunatic I would still have the good sense to do it indoors on days like this. I, like any other time, decided not to stick aorund for the second act. He would go on to receive attention from the other passers by, anyway. I entered the store, purchased a bottle of brandy and a package of prophylactics, and went home. The entire excursion lasted about seven and a quarter minutes.