I’m too early

(sadly these posts will never be early because of the linearity of time. How boring)

I thought I had to be here at five, so I rumbled down, diabetes gear and glorious vegan party rings in tow, for a few hours of training. Turns out I had to be here at half five and am now sitting on my arse, alone at Regent’s Park, tapping out a fillertastic blog post on my phone like some kind of computer-deprived peasant.

I don’t mind waiting – being early gives one time to think in a world where reflection and peace must be earned, not possessed inherently – but I’m annoyed at the build-up to this waiting; I had to abandon a rather entertaining game of Monopoly with my flatmates because I left half an hour eariler than I should have, and might have put a little too much stress on my knee to get here just before when I believed the session started, so now I’m waiting with a slightly frakked knee.

I’m also doing the separate thing of craning my neck to squint perplexedly at every passerby in case they’re one of the guys who’ll be training with me, which gives me a rather Meerkat-like disposition as I sit beneath this tree, alternating between eyes-down post-writing and sudden bursts of fearful, eyes-up alertness.

But then I remember that I’m under a tree in a park on a nice, calm day, and am in a position to enjoy this tranquility. It’s a scene from a Romantic poem, only full of fewer shite metaphors; and I love a lack of shite metaphors.

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