This morning at Bank station a middle-aged businessman has collapsed. He is curled on the platform, pale and vulnerable, like a shell-less snail. A woman is stroking his arm and station staff are hovering with radios; paramedics are on their way. Everything is in hand, there is nothing I can offer. But as the tube slides out of the station, I can't get the image of his face out of my mind.
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| The actual chameleon . The actual road. |
A week ago I was on a Greek island, reading, meandering and snorkelling. I stared at stars, counted bats and saw a chameleon cross the road (ten fantastic minutes of crazy chameleon gait, rocking backwards and forwards like a VHS tape on pause).
Readjusting to normality has been uncomfortable. But I can still read. The weather is pretty good at the moment, and I relish autumn anyway. No snorkelling or chameleons, sadly. But the thing I miss above all else is the soft freedom to be as I want; not having to please anyone else or dress a certain way. Not having to prove my worth. I couldn't sleep on Sunday night, facing a day at the Cabinet Office on Monday. Watched as the hours crawled by, knowing that I needed sleep to be on my game, and knowing that thinking like this would only push it further away. A dog resisting a bath.
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| Optional |
I'm over the adjustment now. I can feel my shell growing back. And I think that's why the man this morning strikes me. On that busy platform, amidst the hard carapaces of suits and job titles and trolley bags, he is a moment of unguarded humanity, soft and exposed and real. I wish him well, and am grateful for the reminder that the shell is a choice.
More chameleons, stars and snorkelling. Actual and metaphorical.
