Ants. Roundabouts.

I watch the ants at the end of our driveway. It's like watching a screensaver; endless movement, rolling patterns, ever changing and yet somehow always the same. Humans must look similar, from above - lots of seemingly pointless scurrying around. I wonder if the ants talk with each other more than we do? Or are they all blindly following rules communicated down from a higher power, heads down, don't make eye contact, lock your car when you approach red traffic lights, keep your thoughts to yourself and for fuck's sake HURRY UP! Yes, I was sitting at a roundabout, waiting my turn and cursing the thimble-minded slurry-for-brains person supposedly in charge of the yellow Fiat ahead of me. It was then I noticed the movements of the cars; the stop, start, keep on going, round and round, everyone channelled motion that was so ant-like. And as I sat cursing, a cyclist headed the wrong way on the pavement; an ant that's smelled food in a different direction. Hope it wasn't a trap.

Think Advent Calendar

There's half a memory, and it keeps trying to resurface. Was it a book that I had as a child? Or a film I saw? Or something I came up with all by myself? Not sure.

Night fell a while ago, and everyone but me seems to be indoors, cosied up, cocooned against the darkness. Curtain gaps reveal tantalising glimmers of light, blanketing from public view nearly all that goes on within. And yet, someone here hasn't pulled their blind, drawn their curtain, shut out the out. I can see in. Not everything, just glimpses.

I'm on a train; fast moving capsule carrying me home, swishing me by all these other lives. I'm too quick to see much: lampshade, telly-flicker, shadow on a wall; dinner on the table, dishes stacked to dry, light goes out, baby bath. Who are these people? What are they thinking? Are they sad?

The street is lined with trees; cherry trees I think. In spring they have pink blossom, just now bare branches silhouette against the clear moonlit backdrop. There's no pavement to walk on, so I'm aiming for the middle of the road. Again, I'm drawn to the windows, shining their secrets down onto the street for me to hold close. Someone is laughing; it's a party. I can hear music and the tell tale clink of hired glassware. Their neighbour, an old man hunches in his chair, leaning towards his television. The News. No dish. I bet he's muttering under his breath about the inconvenient bursts of hilarity from next door.

Something about this grabs me. He's aware of his neighbours. They are oblivious to him. They are all unaware that I'm here, observing, just for a moment, this fragment of their lives.

I go home. And draw the curtains.

Fleeting Meetings

I'm heading home in my car. I feel cosy and protected from the world in my little cocoon of metal and plastic. Tunes are playing, fingers tapping on the steering wheel, the sun glinting against the black metallic paint and things are good. The light ahead is red, so I slow down and pull up alongside a bus. Glancing up, I catch the eye of a woman. I smile. She smiles back. I smile again, wider. She laughs. I laugh. The lights change and I drive straight ahead while the bus turns right and we never see each other again.

Six months ago, that was. I quite often find myself wondering who she was and where she was going. She was dressed in black and had those light blonde curls that suggest she was really grey but hiding it well. Older. Not old though. Smartly dressed, or what my mother would call "well turned out". At first I thought she'd come back from a funeral, but unless it was someone she was glad to be rid of, she seemed far too, jolly, for such things. I wonder if she ever thinks of me?

Musings

So there's a boy. Well, given that I last saw him twenty years ago, I'm sure he qualifies as a "man" now, but in my headspace, whenever I think of him, which I do from time to time, he's a boy: tall, skinny, beautiful, should be more sure of himself than he really is. And I loved him. Not that he ever knew this. Timing you see; it was never quite right. He had a girlfriend. I got a boyfriend. He got another girlfriend. I messed up and left and never laid eyes on my boy ever again. And whether it's because we never kissed, never made out, never "spoiled" our friendship with messy physical and emotional tangleweed, I've never, ever forgotten him. Perhaps a quick shag in dingy student digs would have put paid to my romantic notions, who knows. There's just a tiny, miniscule part of my heart that wants to believe that one day, one day when we're old perhaps, we'll find each other again and be ready to start what we never did when we were young and gorgeous. Notions eh? Who'd have 'em?