ROLO's secret

ROLO yet again met another one of my gorgeous girlfriends in a park. If any creature has lucked out from these lockdowns then they are pets, up and down the country, who get to spend more time with their human counterparts. ROLO also thinks the only social activity we humans get up to is strolling in parks, whatever the weather. From her point of view humans are overly cautious, staying away from each other, unless their dogs get tangled up in one another’s leashes; animals are allowed to socialise, touch and climb on top of one another, licking noses and paws. Humans are wary and suspicious of their kind. 

I am proud to say that ROLO is now 80% house-trained. The remaining 15% is when she pees herself out of sheer excitement, like during a very involved game of chasing the flat-mouse toy; and 5% when the temperature outside is below freezing and she refuses to leave the warmth of our house. So now when she wants to “go” she sits straight-backed at the door and barks. I hurry over and let her out and she scurries out. If it’s night-time she trots back and forth over the length of the patio, waiting for one of her protectors to come outside to keep guard as she poops. I guess it is a time when you feel most vulnerable.

‘I think I’ve found ROLO’s hobby.’ A tells me as I’m drinking my morning coffee.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come with me,’ I follow A into our garden, and he directs me to a blueish tinged bush in the flower beds. ‘She’s been digging.’

I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. So, I climb into the flower bed and pull the bushy blue leaves aside to discover a deep hole. A pit. Dark porous earth is piled up on all sides and I think I can see next door’s concrete patio. I’m quite astonished that ROLO’s been hiding this from us.

‘She is a terrier, it’s in their nature.’ I say sounding calm. ROLO is with us the whole time pretending to be interested in blades of grass, playing it cool, but she senses she’s been sussed out.

Later, while scooping up little ROLO’s turds I come back to the bush and look at the hole again. Something has to be done. I use the poop scoop as a shovel and push the built-up mounds of earth into the hole, filling it in. ROLO is beside me and she begins to rage. I shovel more dirt into the hole and pack it down with my foot. ROLO runs about the flower bed ripping up innocent stems and scrabbling at roots. I pick up a disused brick and place it on top of the earth, sealing up the hole. ROLO is incandescent and attacks the pink poop-scoop and bites it and chucks it off the ledge where it hangs. I go back inside and wash my hands. 

After finding out ROLO’s secret, a lot makes sense. Like why she would try to run into the garden with scraps of food she’d grabbed, probably wanting to bury it for later. Some nights I’d be stroking her head and find flecks of dirt all over her snout and ears. I know terriers like to dig, I also read in a dog manual that owners should make digging pits for them, where they can dig to their heart’s content. You should hide things in there too apparently for the dog to find, like treats and toys. 

I know that when you uncover a secret hiding place, another one will pop up because you can’t get rid of the need. I’m wondering where ROLO will next decide to dig. And I’m wondering where my secret hiding place is, and whether I’ve covered my tracks well enough for it to not be discovered.  

London Wildlife

I went walking with a friend after Lockdown lifted, ever so slightly.

We met in Clapham because of the promise of a fresh gelato ice-cream. Yes. A double dark chocolate dream, but when we arrived at the front of the queue in the gelato place, it turned out my friend had eaten the last scoop the night before. So, I made do with a raspberry sorbet – still delicious and not something I could make at home, or crucially, get delivered to my door. It still counted as a pure #Lockdown experience.  

I walked with Georgia across Clapham Common where everyone was meeting again for the first time after Coronavirus hit the shores of the UK. We both stood in amazement at the park-scape. People enjoying themselves in groups, real people – not lagging behind tech, actually affecting the space surrounding one another. It was amazing.

‘This is so much better than television.’ Georgia said staring, eating her ice-cream.

‘Yeah. SO much more interesting.’

We were starved of human interaction and frozen stiff from too much screen-time. It took us a while to defrost.

The sun was bright and the common was green. It looked like paradise.

We walked through scrubby woodland in the middle of Clapham Common. There were little dens made of folded down twigs and so many wet wipes strewn across the branches. Then we ambled around to the lake to see the ducks and some geezers fishing. Rows of wildflowers had been planted on the Common, but it was mainly dandelions and they’re sort of weeds, aren’t they?

The finale was the urban heron.

A bunch of pigeons were pecking at a pile of chicken pasta salad somebody had thrown over the grass. A stealthy, very lean heron was approaching it, looking pretty awesome in an outfit David Bowie could have worn on stage. Feathery tassels, azure patterns down its razor thin neck.

A brown cocker spaniel bounded onto the scene – scattering the pigeons – screaming infants ran in the opposite direction – the heron swung its legs into the air, like when you get off a bar stool and retreated to a pond.

There were joggers, cyclists, runners, fitness pros live streaming workouts, skaters, cars, shirtless picnics, hampers: London wildlife.

Conkers

I am quite enjoying this rain. My new rain-mac (actually it’s old because it was bought at the Buddhist Centre charity shop – which top tip has a better selection of clothing than your average charity shop – I don’t know why) is the main joy. I check the weather regularly and always the night before, and when it is forecast for drizzle the next morning, I am secretly pleased. I like to wear my peaked hood out on the common; my daily commute to work these days because there are road works down my street, meaning no buses.

I like to pick up conkers from the common on the walk to the station. The dirt from the conkers flake off easily like sand off a shell collected while beach-combing. I collect a conker a day, then give it to a co-worker in the office. Noemi didn’t know what it was called, so when I called it a ‘conker’ she was like, ‘what’s that?’ And I said, ‘that’s what you’re holding.’

She thought it was a chestnut, which to be fair could have been accurate. I checked online and a chestnut (edible) is from a sweet chestnut tree and its outer shell has loads of spikes, like a hedgehog. A conker (poisonous) is from a horse chestnut tree and its outer casing is bumpier and smoother, like skin with acne. I have no idea what kind of shells my conkers came in, so I will have to check tomorrow when I walk under the tree for remnants of their husks.

There is also a gathering of crows every morning on the common. Round about the same time I am picking up conkers, you’ll see an even spread of crows all over the grass. Each crow has a patch of their own and they position themselves equidistant from every other crow, so they’ve got it covered. I’m not sure if this is normal crow behaviour, or if this is just a city full of crows.

Spirit level

I had to spend the hot sunlit days caged inside an office. Outside there was the repetitive pounding of a crane, breaking up the hard ground beneath the silt under the Thames. I imagined it giving migraines to those walking by, but filtered through my thick walls it was like the quickened strikes of a clock tower, madness. 

I ride the train every morning and some days I can concentrate on reading, other days I cannot and stare past people. There has been a lot of that lately and the views are not great. The backs of buildings and concrete. Scaffolding. As we approach the city there is too much glass. The whole train carriage overhears something that sounds salacious to the speaker - sleeping with a middle manager - but for the rest of us it as a nuisance disaffecting the daily commute.

Amongst one of these days I am leaning against a luggage compartment, blockaded by a rucksack and some shoulders, then holding on to the railing before me I see the back of a hand close-up. In biro it is written SPIRIT LEVEL. I think hard about what this could mean, until I follow the hand up the arms to see it is connected to a man dressed in overalls, with dust and paint all over his shirt. I turn back to stare at the grey everything with an extinguished sense of wonder. 

But for the last weeks I have been thinking about what it could have meant before I realised what it actually meant. ‘How’s your spirit level?’ Is a good question. If I asked myself that recently it would be, ‘Particularly low today. And your’s?’ There have been invites sent in the post sealed with happiness about weddings for me to receive in my pyjamas to feel slightly saddened about. My twenties are over. I have managed to accumulate things, which remind me that I once got that with the hopes of... then I feel a twinge of disappointment in myself or the thing for not following through with it. 

An ex-boyfriend sends me an e-mail about turning thirty and living in Honolulu or ‘Wherever the wind takes me’. The billboards on the side of buses carry slogans that don’t make sense with the aim to make me linger on their messages; I fall for it. The possibility of getting a dog seems distant, while I get invited to flat-warmings and take in the nice scenery and accept that people are moving on.

Though spirit levels are about balance and some days I am high. Like when sitting in the sunshine in a park I have only just discovered and fallen in love with, for it’s the site of a Victorian ruin. Resting a sleepy head on my lap, stretching apart my toes and watching a grandmother fanning herself, as her grandson shows off tricks on his new scooter. Spirit level rising. Later I had a bubblegum flavoured ice cream from a van, which was bright blue and had a similar chewy consistency to gum. Proving that childhood memories can be bettered by current ice cream flavours. 

So things are not all that bad and not all that good. But I do feel slightly off-balance.