Airports revisited and birds warning of an imminent apocalypse.

Airports revisited and birds warning of an imminent apocalypse.

(To be confirmed).

September 2016

Airports. Such fun. I always associated air travel with a certain elan, in a 60's James Bond kind of way. Ladies in large Sophia Lauren sunglasses and impeccable manners. Greying gentlemen smelling of Vetiver and pipe tobacco, carrying a little valise of essentials.....perhaps a misunderstood spy or two.

Of course, but of course, the reality is somewhat different. A loud scratching PA system streams an incomprehensible array of white noise at a sweaty, post euphoric crowd, comprising many young folk of all genders and sensibilities, with incredibly symmetric eyebrows. Some are dressed to impress, and it is impressive that some have managed to get dressed. Many, encouraged by the shrill background noise are also shouting loudly. Some have no fear of germs and such like and are sitting, lying eating, and sleeping on a floor laid when marble was cheap. The little canteen is making enough to pay back a significant part of the national debt. Only large expensive bottles of water are available. The flight has been delayed. They can't process us quickly enough.

Almost September 2021

I spent some time looking for the above bit of prose, which I had hurriedly typed on my old phone some years ago. It made me laugh. I know laughing at your own jokes is not 'cool', but I think it's ok if like me you are very very funny. (I'm kidding obviously). That was then and this is now when travel by plane seems like an act of malicious vandalism. Now, when breathing close to people is considered dangerous. Now, that temperatures have soared into the top 40s in Athens.

You know, I am sure life was funnier five years ago. I think I felt more and did more. I worry it is old age 'creeping up' as they say. I think it would be much scarier if old age actually jumped out of a closet unexpectedly and you suddenly were gripped by an insatiable urge to nap and wear corduroy trousers and softer underwear. What? Just me?

In any case, as I was saying, I worry. Maybe it is worrying that is contributing to my ageing, darn and blast it. So, anyway, less travel, yet more baggage. The past few years have somehow blurred the lines between truth and lies via Trump and between safety and death via the coronavirus and the imminent collapse of the Earth's ecosystems.

As well as the worry, there are increasingly frantic dreams. I think they are a residue from 30 years of teaching and towards the end, managing a school. I think that in order to get through those times, I created an 'emotional crap safe', where all worry was securely stored in order for me to be able to do my job. It's been a while since I left teaching ( I won't say retired, for it would be an untruth) and taken up a new career as a self-employed artist. A sole trader. A creative. A man who works harder than ever, but without the security of a regular salary. Hense the stressy dreams. The teaching and post-teaching 'Arting' dreams are usually about planning, deadlines, things going wrong with art coursework or commissions and school buildings, ( I was part of the Building Schools for the Future refurbishment of two schools) contractors arguing, psychologists and colleagues complaining. Things collapse. Bits of coursework don't work out. People are running around trying to make it to places on time and failing. In the stressy dreams, these events seem more like life and death scenarios than just missing a deadline or an appointment.

So, we have less humour, more fear, ageing and making art. Art that must be meaningful and that often is a struggle to pull off is the only art that matters, right? Also the dreams. And the birds. Yes, the birds. I did not mention them so far, because, well, I was not sure whether they fitted in this narrative. I will give it a shot, as I am desperate to capture something of my diminishing sense of wonder, before worrying about the future (We all know how this will end, right?) eclipses any such possibility. So, the birds: The last couple of times I have taken a very long (power assisted) bike ride along the circuitous 12-mile route I used to take three times a week to avoid a 'schism' with my then 'manager', I have had an encounter with birds.

The first time a large group of crows 'followed' me from tree to tree for a few miles, making me swerve and incur a small strain that will remain private for now. They seemed to be mocking my pedalling action, which resembles a somewhat comedic speeded-up version of legwork against the frictionless electric drive of my clunky battery-operated bike. I was an early adopter and when I bought this 'thing' seven years ago; batteries were big, frames were made from off-cuts from the locomotive industry and health and safety manuals did not include the strength and suitability of the bolts and fastening screws. The company that made the bike really meant well. They did an amazing job compiling a thing on two wheels with very odd parts that do not really look as if they belong together. To their credit, even though the parts also look dangerous, they actually work. I only had two bits fall off the bike and the folding frame has remained clipped in despite the lethal-looking clasp that was, I fancy meant for home stairs toddler safety gates.

The crows marmorated somewhat too, a strange black cloud, which made stops on tall trees as I rode through a deserted country lane. I thought it very odd and after some thirty years of riding that route, I was left puzzled and considered the matter an uncanny singular event. This, until yesterday. As I was riding close to the spot a large cloud of pigeons was moving across the sky, in the characteristic flowing fashion we sometimes see on nature programs. Then, it went rather peculiar, with birds breaking off and flying in numerous directions, noisily clucking and flapping. This time, I narrowly missed falling into a ditch as I tried to catch a better glimpse. The light was odd too. A low lying sun at around five in the afternoon, hot as an iron one minute, then hiding behind clouds to leave you with a cold clammy wind that bellowed through the trees and made a deafening noise, so uncharacteristic of English summer afternoons/evenings.

I rode on and arrived at the lost village of Ingarsby, a place that holds dear memories for me and is also fascinating. A long-gone structure tantalisingly referred to as 'Monk's Mount' stands atop the hill with the footpath which connects Ingarsby with Scraptoft. There, I did some artwork, which I have also done in days gone by. Whilst my previous attempts were simple versions of the rolling hills and trees, yesterday's attempts came out dark and out-worldly. These are them. Made on the iPad. Gone are the days when I carried all the painting kit up the hill on my old and now stolen, Raleigh bike.

I think you will agree they look a bit ominous....Well, I am determined to go back and see if that was due to a one-off man-mood, or whether indeed the world is coming to a swift end and the birds are trying to warn mankind through me. Who would have thought? I figured that would be something best seen through the magic of a multimillion production set in Hollywood, not filmed on a cheap phone in little (but beautiful) Leicester.

Anyway, stay tuned for that update and thanks for reading.