Oh, that Monday morning walk to work, like a jouney to the gallows. The streets pass reluctantly by. I glance with jealousy at the men and women, happy and relaxed sat on the pavement chairs outside of cafes. That rich smell of morning coffee, remniscent of happy train journeys and days that have no plans, nothing to do, certainly nothing unpleasant to do anyway. How I long to join them, but cannot, as I have to work. I have to - finally - give up the weekend. Own-time is over, and now it is owned-time. The odd thing is, after half an hour of being actually at work, it becomes oddly enjoyable, catching up with people after the weekend.
The strange dread of Monday mornings actually infects almost all of Sunday as well. I guardedly watch the time, unwilling to commit to any activity that might make the day pass by any quicker. When night falls on Sunday night, it is with an air of almost superstitous portentousness. Dismal are those evenings when the time comes to turn the light on. You try and make the best of it though; another three hours before bed, enough time to read some more / watch a film / do some more drawing.
The only thing that really allays this Sunday evening anxiety is an evening walk. I like to set out about half an hour before twilight, and come back when it is fully dark.
I avoided walking by the cemetery on the Old Shoreham Road last night, and that edgy atmosphere of vulnerable isolation that has accompanied recent Sunday night excursions there. I went up Sackville Road instead, past my old flat on Wilbury Crscent, and then in a kind of circle back home. Never mind about these Sunday evening walks laying to rest the ghosts of Monday morning, it is the only time I actually feel relatively untroubled by life (even with the toothache which is going to necessitate a long overdue trip to the dentist...)
That same toothache kept me in a state of restlessness all night. as I woke up every few hours with a dismal feeling of dread. This wasn't because of the pain, which is light and barely there, but because the existence of the toothache, and the fact that its progressive quality, is meaning a definite trip to the dentists. It is like that fear of Monday morning, but worse.I dread to think the last time I went. When I get to going to the dentist, there is the fear of an inevitable medical procedure to contend with. I find having an eye test at the opticians horrifying enough, thank you, but the going to the dentists makes that pale in comparison. I have to go, it is inevitabvle, otherwise it will only get worse.
At least my broken sleep last night meant I remembered my dreams. Or at least a dream. In it I had returned to the house I lived in during adolescence down Woodstock Drive in Ickenham. I had - for some forgotten reason - been allowed access to the interior of the house. The interior of the house bore no resemblance to it in waking life. I remember the garden of the dream house, the tall and narrow trees, fluttering leaves, silver bark. I wish I could remember more but it is now twelve hours later and much of the detail has now gone. The interesting thing about this dream (which I have had before) is that in the 'Woodstock Drive' dreams I am actually back inside the house. In the 'London Road' and 'Southside dreans' I am always trying to get back to the houses I once lived in, but never quite make it.
I did dream the other night of being opposite 136 London Road. I was outside looking in, and I could see that the whole interior had been refurbished, and that the first floor was now some giant room, where huge windows let in a bright blue sky from outside.
