passing recognition
Despite my aversion to routine, the familiarity of the faces on my way to work every morning is definitely growing on me.
There’s the lady who looks like a substitute teacher that came to teach at my high school once. I often wonder if the recognition in her eyes stems from there or if it’s just my imagination and it’s merely because she sees me every morning.
Then, there’s the au pair with the two little boys who look like angelic-faced terrors. The smallest one has taken to riding his bike ahead of her and his brother and more often than not I pass him waiting patiently at the corner, out of breathe, his bike tossed carelessly beside him.
A few paces ahead I meet the European couple who I’m convinced are joined at the hands. Other than that, they seem quite normal on the surface and there is little that makes them distinctive, to me.
As my heels continue to clip-clop along the path I go by the guy who must be Australian. I imagine he is one of those surfer types who, at some point, will realise that the strength of the Pound is not enough to keep him in London. Soon, he’ll go back to the beach and write this time off as an experience that made him appreciate the life he has back home.
Somewhere along the way I encounter the stereotype, chic London girl with her high heels, perfect blonde hair and stylish attire. My guess is that she grabs her substitute breakfast, a latte, from Café Nero around the corner before jumping onto the tube. I continue down the road, feeling a bit disheveled in comparison.
Finally, I smile at ‘Dad’ adorning his bike helmet and cycle gear and pushing his bicycle along the footpath. ‘Son’ is perched proudly on the saddle of his father’s oversized racing bike, happy to be chauffeured to school in this most novel of fashions.
I hope to never reach the day when all those faces have been replaced by new ones. This would simply mean that they have all moved on and I have stayed the same and frankly, I have far too much living to do. Maybe I’ll just walk the other way for a few days.
There’s the lady who looks like a substitute teacher that came to teach at my high school once. I often wonder if the recognition in her eyes stems from there or if it’s just my imagination and it’s merely because she sees me every morning.
Then, there’s the au pair with the two little boys who look like angelic-faced terrors. The smallest one has taken to riding his bike ahead of her and his brother and more often than not I pass him waiting patiently at the corner, out of breathe, his bike tossed carelessly beside him.
A few paces ahead I meet the European couple who I’m convinced are joined at the hands. Other than that, they seem quite normal on the surface and there is little that makes them distinctive, to me.
As my heels continue to clip-clop along the path I go by the guy who must be Australian. I imagine he is one of those surfer types who, at some point, will realise that the strength of the Pound is not enough to keep him in London. Soon, he’ll go back to the beach and write this time off as an experience that made him appreciate the life he has back home.
Somewhere along the way I encounter the stereotype, chic London girl with her high heels, perfect blonde hair and stylish attire. My guess is that she grabs her substitute breakfast, a latte, from Café Nero around the corner before jumping onto the tube. I continue down the road, feeling a bit disheveled in comparison.
Finally, I smile at ‘Dad’ adorning his bike helmet and cycle gear and pushing his bicycle along the footpath. ‘Son’ is perched proudly on the saddle of his father’s oversized racing bike, happy to be chauffeured to school in this most novel of fashions.
I hope to never reach the day when all those faces have been replaced by new ones. This would simply mean that they have all moved on and I have stayed the same and frankly, I have far too much living to do. Maybe I’ll just walk the other way for a few days.
posted by foxy_roxtar at 10:31 AM
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