¦ dialling in from workstation ¦
08:39 GMT, Tuesday 2nd December 2008. Utterly divine drive in this morning. For most of the journey the sun directly in front of me, low on the horizon, a vast orb spilling gold and fiery light across a frost-encased rural landscape. I adore the fact that as I pull away from my house and join the nearby main road, I can take a left turn, heading in the opposite direction to the majority of traffic… away from the long line of vehicles bunching together, crawling towards the city centre. Within 5 minutes I’ve popped beyond the urban edge of Bristol and I’m flying along a narrow strip of black-top winding between trees and hedgerows, flashes of sunlight kissing my face, over and around the bulging flanks of hills; with regular glimpses of far vistas beneath a cold blue sky… distant hills, distant edges of Bristol dropping behind, or the approaching huddle of Bath within the deep cup of surrounding slopes. I’ve got the heater on – warm air blowing across my hands on the wheel – and the window half-open, icy air blasting my grinning face. This is the start to my day. I am deeply pleased and grateful.
Meanwhile, I am aware of the return of something I’ve always called “The Mood”. Not sure how to describe it or explain it. Every couple of years it returns for a few days and then goes away. It’s a smell, a taste, an emotion… all in one. If I breathe in through my nose now, I can smell it… something that started last Friday, slightly acrid, like smoke, now transforming, as always, becoming something like burnt vanilla… sweeter, more pleasant, eventually it’ll turn into a scent like almonds. The smell isn’t actually there. It’s just… in my head. And with the smell comes a state of mind. A very pleasant emotional plateau. A “place” I am very familiar with because I’ve been here time and again throughout my history. Ever since… well, the first time I can recall it is from when I was about 12; reading The Fog by James Herbert. I’m always delighted when it returns for the fact it connects me vividly, viscerally even, with these bubbles of memory threaded through my past. Is that strange? I suppose it possibly is.
Djr