PERCOLATOR

It’s so nice to be able to get back to the park, now the days are getting a bit longer. A quick dinner, a bit of Radio 4 for Just a Minute, and then I’m shoes-on-ready for the sunset and the buttercups.

I really need these moments. The world out there is rapid, quick-fire, snarling, and dangerous. But in the park, the grass grows slowly, the sun sinks silently, and the birds fill the trees like choristers at evensong. This is how I roll.

I told a WhatsApp group I’m in, that I’m a percolator.

“I am a percolator”...

I typed, adding a carriage return before explaining in the next paragraph. I thought it would be funny.

I’m not sure it was. I was trying to explain that I think slowly, process things, chew them over, ruminate, deliberate, percolate, like all the best coffee machines. Long after meetings have finished, I’m still logically rolling over the details.

I agree, it’s way too slow for some people. And yes, those people are exactly the people who usually run stuff at speed, and are way too busy to ... percolate, or come out here with me to talk it over with the birds and the trees. I doubt I’ll ever be able to run stuff at speed, and I take my hat off to those high-flying sprint-thinkers.

Anyway. The park is lovely. I’ve listened to the Oxford train, invisibly rattling behind the tree line. I’ve watched the thick rays of sunlight burst through the clouds. I’ve heard at least eleven different bird calls and wished I could recognise... any of them. I’ve seen lights flicker on across the valley and shadows fall, and I’ve felt the air grow cold with the stars. There’s a solemn beauty about moments like these that I hope will percolate through to tomorrow. I think I’ll need it.