I reach the end of my road gasping for breath. It feels as if I'm walking with weights around my ankles. It's been tough making it as far as the Turkish shop today. The snow that fell so heavily last night is still about five inches deep. At the newsagents, the chap who runs it signals to me through the dirty glass door to indicate that The Observer has not arrived yet. His gesture is also a way of saying that I needn't bother coming into his shop, thus, letting the cold air in, even if it's just for a fleeting instant. I turn around and cross the road. As I head for another newsagents, I take my earphones off to capture better the sounds of the recent snowfall. Roy Ayers and the Nuyorican Soul's Sweet Tears are paused momentarily. An eerie silence descends upon me as I forge ahead, each foostep leaving a clue as to my shoe size on the white carpet.
I finally get to the second newsagents. The guy, who also knows me, opens his large arms widely and shrugs his shoulders. No paper there either. I turn around and make my way back home. En route, I walk past the new pub - the third one on the same spot in less than ten years - with its promising menu and enticing discounts, more groups of children having snowball fights and black African women with patterned headwraps and dressed to the nines on their way to church. I put my earphones back on and welcome the melodic voice of Roy Ayers as he wraps up Sweet Tears.
Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 26th February at 10am (GMT)
Image taken from flickr groups