My ten days with little Hans in South London have come to an end. In a few hours, I roll my mobile home into a loft in Shoreditch, where I’ll be pet sitting black beauty Louie for the next two months.
Today’s other special occasion: I now work only three days of the week. The remainder of my days can now be dedicated to finishing my horror novel and getting back into strength training. Or, at the very least, a lot of long walks around London while the weather holds.
Awake to the trees at the top of the mountain, seen every morning from the writer’s seat.
Awake to the cats that rushed through green ferns while maitacas flew overhead.
Awake to the many notebooks and journals that lined my passage through Earth.
Awake to each blade of grass and fallen leaf swept into the white canvas bag and then carried to the composting heap.
Awake to the banana bread made in the evenings and enjoyed with coffee.
Awake to the sound of rain that lulled me into sleep.
Awake, now, to the blessing of a commuter train crossing London.
I've been running for over two years now a series of 100-words only flash pieces on Substack, called Messages from the Log. "Awake" is the most recent one, though it's a reworking of a post I published here many moons ago, during the pandemic.
relaxed
“O importante não é a casa onde moramos. Mas onde, em nós, a casa mora.”
Mia Couto
We meet, as agreed, by the landing at 8 am.
‘We’ll go by Millfields Park, today,’ you say,’ to vary the walk.’
We cross paths with parents taking their children to school, teenagers waiting for each other and cats that watch, watch, and watch.
We pop into Millfields Café and order hot drinks to the sound of The Smiths’ “Paint a Vulgar Picture.”
We then cross Millfields - past personal coaches training clients, past dog walkers; then past the narrowboats that line the start of the River Lea.
We spot a shopping trolley. Kate in America collects their photos. Snap!
Local election results blare from a TV next to a clock showing 7:35 A.M. Reform gained over 1400 seats and Hackney has its first ever Green mayor.
Lukewarm morning sunshine breaks through grey clouds. Builders line up for their sausage rolls and tea. A man takes a table vacated by two burly decorators, then plays videos on his phone. Some are in French, some in an African language I don’t recognise. They compete at first with the TV, then drown it out.
‘Stop the boats,’ says the BBC News presenter.
His phone goes silent when his breakfast arrives.
1. What did you do in 2025 that you'd never done before?
grateful
picosgemeos and I saw these in November and given that I only knew one song (2017's Fractured Mind), I really loved them. They came off somewhere between The Postal Service and OMD, but unlike '80s electro bands they were active, not static behind synths and were very entertaining with some Napoleon Dynamite-esque boogieing. Also we had seats, which always helps.
‘It’s wet,’ a young woman warned my lover and I just as we reached the tube train’s only free seat. ‘Pass it along if I leave before you.’
At the next stop, a grandmother with her 4-year-old grandchild went for the soggy seat. I stopped them. She apologised profusely in Mandarin while the child translated my warning.
‘I nearly brought sticky notes,’ I told my lover while I rummaged through my backpack for paper. He fished a black marker pen out of his, a torn journal page and voilà: someone’s trousers were saved.
relaxed
nostalgic