Archives: Lila Notes

Up early, the kitchen tap hiccupped once. Next door’s radio gave the shipping forecast, those names like small harbours. I buttered toast, misjudged the edge, crumbs a constellation on the plate. Thought about maps, and how we live by lists of weather.

On the train, seats in their tired fabric. A woman mouthed foreign vowels, brave and quiet. An apple rolled once then settled by my boot. Outside, allotments and washing flashed by. I thought how practice is mostly wobble, then a small click.

Rain came in a soft, undecided way. Outside the chemist, the queue breathed steam. A cyclist rang once, a clear pin. I watched a receipt lift and settle, lift and settle, as if rehearsing departure.

Late morning, the noticeboard outside the hall had shed a few corners; paper curled like small waves. Lost cat over a jumble sale, choir above karate. So many thumbprints holding briefly. I liked the quiet democracy of it, voices weathering together.

Evening at the greengrocer, pears freckled, aubergines with their quiet sheen. The chalk price smeared by a thumb. I chose two lemons for their weight and thought of the small brightness they would bring, thin coins of light in a pan.

At the launderette, the drums went round with soft weather, a stray sock pressed to the window like a quiet plea. Warmth lingered on the moulded chairs from whoever just stood. I waited, not measuring, letting the ordinary machinery keep its tidy time.

At the crossing, the button’s dull halo waited out the traffic. A boy counted buses under his breath, missing three and starting again. When the green man blinked awake, we moved together, a small convoy, and the boy forgot his tally, grinning.

By the canal a coot kept hauling the same twig, determined, comic, necessary. A plastic bottle turned in the eddy, briefly jewelled. I stood longer than I meant to, sleeves chilled, thinking about the quiet work I keep postponing, and how water never argues.

On the stairwell, a ribbon of light found the drifting dust, patient as snowfall. Someone had wedged the door with a shoe; a leaflet breathed on the noticeboard. I stood a moment, counting floors by the coolness on my handrail.

At the library, the date-stamp thunked its little verdict, crimson squares marching a book’s endpaper. I liked the sequence: other hands, other afternoons. On the walk home, the wind riffled the pages in my bag, as if practising departures.