Cyclokairos

How much of it was necessary, I don’t know. But it got done: the cabinet for storing files was hung in the office; the wooden worktops in the kitchen were varnished; clothes were washed, dishes too; tasks in the garden – shrubs pruned and perennials flush with the seemingly daily rain cut back, bird feeders refilled, and the pheromone trap for box moths emptied (a new arrival last year; will I have to ultimately give up on plants grown from tip cuttings a dozen years ago? So much investment, but nothing lasts, nothing is finished, nothing is perfect); tasks in my mum’s garden too – the branch of a laburnum torn from the trunk by strong winds, cut up and moved; and with the fridge empty, food bought. Incessant, non-stop, until enough is enough – then an hour or two astride, and beside (to stand and stare), two triangles of chromoly. Everything slowed down, everything forgotten – life lived through moments, to see this:

And this:

Where the entrances to lanes read:

And looking like this, are not just empty of motor vehicles, but just empty:

Crossing the Grand Union canal, a remnant of times past, when the canal was not for leisure but industry, a major artery for the flow of goods between Birmingham and London:

No weight limit stated, the portliness of the Surly be damned, I cross. All well, success, things move on.