I am imprisoned. Trapped in a tiny triangle of land, no more than a mile on the longest side. The corners are my house, school/ nursery and the supermarket.
My Life Has Shrunk
My days involve walking from home to school/ nursery, and back again. Twice a week, I go beyond that short line with a trip to the supermarket for more cucumber and washing powder, then it’s back to school again. Five days a week, three times a day, I walk along the same route, and it’s a miracle there isn’t a dip in the pavement where I’ve worn it thin.
Whilst the journey rarely varies, every day it’s different, due to the inventive minds of my children. Yesterday we all rode invisible unicorns to school until mine became lame and couldn’t gallop any more (I was too tired to keep up the pace).
I Have Shrunk
But this house-school-supermarket-arrest preys on my mind – I fear I’ll be infected with village mentality, because this patch of land is an island of little significance in the ‘grand scheme of things’ whose centre (in the UK) is the chaotic metropolis of London.
This tract of land is both nothing (a teeny dot on a map) and everything (my entire universe) and my mind struggles with that paradox.
Every so often I strap the kids into the car and make it all the way across town, celebrating that I have escaped the well-worn rut that is my life. Over the invisible fence by – another mile. Woo hoo! I feel like a different woman to the chemical engineer who delivered complex training to big name companies in places like Oslo, Lisbon, Kalamazoo and Dublin.
A New Richness
It’s over a decade since Andy and I moved into this street. Ten years of nodding or saying hello and that was the sum of our acquaintance with the people in this street.
Yet this repetition creates a richness, a new depth to my experience. My neighbourhood has come alive again. I notice the subtle changes from month to month: where the snowdrops grow, the slipperiest corner to avoid if the ground is icy, where the cat with no tail lives and which gates hide barking dogs.
Memories Ingrained in the Pavement
“That’s a fire station” declared Nibbles confidently one morning. As I look to where he’s pointing, I admit that the red double garage looks a bit like a fire station. Now I can’t walk past without smiling at the memory. Over there’s a hole where Nibbles and Bubbles stuffed all the twigs they could find until it was fit to bursting and I had to convince them to find another. Here’s the spot they lay down protesting they couldn’t walk another step.
But it’s more than just familiarity and memories. There are new faces, new names, new connections. Its the people who bring it this triangle to life.
People Make a Neighbourhood
There’s grandma Dee in her downstairs flat. We wave to Dee, and talk to her if the window is open, or mime shivering when the weather is cold. Sometimes we see her at the bus stop on her way to the shops, or sneak a peek at the new wallpaper in her lounge once she has her flat redecorated. Once she invited me in and we talked about our families.
There’s a couple who sit on their front step with steaming cups of tea and cigarettes. One day, when we saw them both on the way to nursery and on the way back, Nibbles stated with wide-eyed astonishment “they’re still there!” I laughed and suggested that they had maybe gone inside in the interim.
Karl tells us about his model airplanes, sharing tales of broken wings or tail pieces and things I know nothing about, with his friendly wagging dog who is stocky and almost never jumps up. When the kids aren’t with me, we talk about his legs and the son he hasn’t heard from in over a decade.
Lydia once shouted at Nibbles for treading on the pebbles on her drive (and I frowned with a harrumph and a ‘what’s her problem?’). But since her initial outburst, she softened. Now she waves, remarks how well behaved the children are, as she tends the flowers in her pots and dusts her china.
New Roots
For years I just lived here. My house is here. That was about it. I introduced myself to my neighbours when I moved in, or they did, then promptly forgot their names.
But the children kept asking “what he called?” about the man next door, until I gave in and asked (on their behalf). He’s Charlie, but the children call him “Mr Charlie” which gives a sense of grandeur and respect I really like. Until they shout and scream “Mr Charlie” incessantly through the window at him as he’s leaving his house, which I like a lot less.
And in peopling the walk, I have found new roots, a new sense of belonging, a new sense of camaraderie with the streets in which I live and walk.
Get To Know Your Neighbours
Try it. Walk to the shop every day to get a paper or a pint of milk, and you’ll discover a whole new world, right on your doorstep. Full of stories, people, smiles, friendships and community. Stop once in a while and say more than just “hello” and you can unearth stories that will stay with you for a lifetime.
I am so glad I have my children, because through them, I have found a new me. A connected me. A me with roots. Something I haven’t felt since I was a child myself, falling into the pond at Mr Moon’s house and playing with the Blocks next door.
In shrinking the fibres of my life in a hot wash, I have found a new warmth, a new hygge that was here all along. A felted mesh of memories, imbued with cosy familiarity, inhabited by people I know. Who knew that shrinking could be so enriching?
