Just some whimsical ramblings about my journey home from work...

The train slows in to Leigh-on-Sea and I make the split decision that I’m going to get off three stops early and walk home, for a change.  I turn the dial on my iPod to select the all-important musical accompaniment for my journey…as I do this I can hear my Grandad’s words echoing in my head “You shouldn’t walk about with that thing in your ears…someone might grab you off the street…” I’m not worried.  I’ve got long hair so that’ll cover the earphones, and besides, after the nightmare day I’ve had at work anyone deciding to “grab me off the street” will be in for a nasty shock.  Bring it on. 

Having finally selected Jason Mraz’s excellently soothing ‘Live at Java Joe’s’ as my soundtrack I step off the train, anonymous amongst the heaving masses of nine-to-fivers, to start the uphill walk towards Southend.  It’s 6:10 in the evening so it’s pitch black outside, which I actually like; there’s a nice, cosy feeling about being wrapped up against the cold and dark, and a real appreciation of coming home that I just don’t feel in the summer.

As I approach the hill I can hear the muffled sound of people talking so I slow down to let them go past (I hate the feeling of unknown people walking behind me).  It’s a teenage couple, he in tracksuit, she in denim micro-mini with woolly tights, bomber jacket and J-Lo style hoop earrings.  Fortunately my music drowns out most of their conversation, although I am able to catch the word “like” (that great Essex conversational staple) peppering the dialogue more times than I can care to count.  It surprises me that they don’t have the obligatory cigarettes dangling from their fingers, and I have to suppress a wry laugh about five seconds later when they stop dead in the middle of the road to light up. 

I turn the corner into Leigh Broadway, hailed as the more “upmarket” part of the area because it’s littered with trendy boutiques of all kinds and gourmet restaurants (so-called because they’re not branches of Pizza Express or McDonalds).  As I go past the specialist antique dealers’ (I said it was posh), a group of badly dressed men approach from the opposite direction, shouting that highly amusing and original taunt: “Oi, Blondie!” at me.  I ignore them and continue on my way, supposing I should be grateful...God knows what they’d have shouted at me if I had any other colour hair. One of them bellows something else after me as I turn the corner; I don’t catch it, but as a natural optimist I like to think it’s something along the lines of a cheery “Have a lovely evening!” accompanied by a cheery tip of the hat (OK, Fila cap). 

There is a lot of my life to be found here in these streets; I have (rather boringly) only ever lived in this area.  I’m enjoying this literal trip down memory lane and am moving into Chalkwell now, past the Chinese karaoke restaurant at which I had my clichéd hen night…where just a week afterwards an outbreak of cockroaches was discovered and it was closed down in a blaze of local publicity, only to re-open a month later with a suspiciously similar name. No-one seemed to mind.  I suppose cockroaches or no cockroaches, there’s always going to be a high demand for cheap Chinese food, copious amounts of alcohol and pissed-up karaoke.  Amen to that.

A little further on I encounter the bridal boutique where aged fifteen I was given the sack after just one day, for the heinous crime of (tactfully) suggesting to a rather rotund lady that she’d be better off with something slightly larger than the size-10 dress she’d just requested to try on.  I was only trying to save her embarrassment, but alas a glittering career in the wedding dress industry just wasn’t to be. 

Since I started this journey I’ve been silently counting the number of joggers that have puffed past me, eerily lit up in the orange glow of the streets.  I’m on six at the moment, rapidly turning to seven as a sweaty middle-aged man in a pair of tight white shorts and a yellow vest top half-jogs past me, panting breathlessly.  I admire these people, really I do, but I happen to be of the opinion that if exercise has to be done, it should at least be enjoyable and I can’t see one redeeming feature in pounding the pavement on a bleak November evening, sweating all over the place and dressed only in ill-fitting Lycra.  Still, perhaps it’s me who’s mad, judging by the number of people who are out there doing it. 

I’m in Westcliff now, supposedly the rougher end of town, although I’m indifferent to that having lived here for so long.  I pass the local theatre and lament, as I always do when I see it, the fact that it has been closed down with the windows boarded up and covered in graffiti (definitely not the artistic kind).  This is a bit hypocritical of me really, seeing as I’ve only ever been there twice in my lifetime and one of those times is borderline, being as it was to see ‘Mother Goose’ when I was six and therefore not even my choice.  

The pub next door to the defunct theatre has been revamped in a vain attempt to give it a trendier image. As I glance through the window the only real effect of this seems to have been in disconcerting the well-worn regulars, who look more than a little out of place with their pints, amongst the plush pink furniture and cocktail menus. 

I continue on, stopping as I approach the local Methodist church as there is a poster in the window advertising a creative writing group starting next week.  I’d really like to join something like that (I need the practice!), but I’m slightly worried about the fact that it’s being held in a church; will I be run out in disgrace once my atheism is discovered?  Or maybe someone will recognise that I used to be a Brownie at this very church (albeit nearly twenty years ago) and offer me the opportunity to finally earn my cookery badge, the last attempt failing miserably as I spectacularly set fire to the kitchen.  It made the local paper at the time…not, I think, the kind of accolade my Dad was hoping for his eldest daughter.

I’m nearing home now, trying to cross the road and waiting patiently at a zebra crossing; three cars zoom past so I step brazenly into the road, incurring the wrath of the white van driver who has had to brake sharply to let me cross.  He shouts something at me from the window…pity I’ve still got my music on a bit too loud to hear what it was. 

As I approach home I realise that I had forgotten all about my nightmare day at work for an hour, so all in all the walk has been effective I suppose.  I’ve got a bitch of a meeting in the morning…maybe I’ll try jogging home tomorrow.