end of the day

Got up early and went out for rolls. My kitchen looked like it had been raided and I needed to eat. Most of Goldhawk Road was still sleeping. The shutters of the countless shops were drawn shut. Even most of the after-hours convenience stores were closed. Only the bakery was open, and the warm smell of freshly baked bread guided the way.

The first part of the day, after breakfast, was spent running around the neighborhood for food and a haircut, cleaning and working at home, and ticking to-dos of the ever-growing list. I was out of breath when I finally set out on my way to the center of town, a journey of leaps and bounds, in buses and on foot, through parks and along high streets. In Kensington, I shopped like there was no yesterday, as if my closet weren't full, as if, if you insist, I weren't in serious need of some fresh cloth over my shoulders. The day was already a success when I left the last store before the commercial restraint of Kensington Gardens and beyond.

Another bus took me to Royal Albert Hall, two stops away and a welcome relief for my feet. Next to the round temple of popular high culture is the Royal College of Art where I wanted to see the Graduate Summer Show. Illustrations, architecture, industrial design, fashion, and art from science – there were hundreds of pieces in a riotous jumble. Colors, sounds, smells and motions assaulted my senses and spun my head. I didn't find serenity like I like to do in art galleries, and was driven on by the madness.

Nothing wild or crazy, however, can compare to the rush of Oxford Street when the shops are open. I got off yet another bus at Marble Arch and started making my way through the crowds that flailed impressive bunches of shopping bags about them as if there had never been a recession. I straightened my shoulders and put my weight forward, cutting through the mess with blunt determination but waning forces. Sometimes I had to step on the street, synchronizing my speed with the never-ending string of buses, because there was simply no room on the sidewalk.

I entered some more stores and surprised myself with the ease with which I parted with the money in my wallet. My backpack grew increasingly heavy, and at one point I even carried a plastic shopping back myself. That was not a good idea, though, because it got immediately entangled in many-legged counter-traffic. I veered to the side wall of an unoccupied office block, gave my pack a solid pounding, and stuffed in what had been out. There was room for more. I wanted more, and kept going. The hours passed.

The sun was still out but sitting low in the western sky, mottling the clouds with bright orange highlights, when I finally got back home. The day had been as crazy as this town is. I drank the madness in with big gulps and had exhausted myself. Now it was time to kick back and recharge, take the Sunday for what it's made, enjoy the weekend the traditional way.

I dropped into one of my enormous blue easy chairs, flung the slippers off my feet, and hit the play button on my stereo's remote. The positive energy of vigorously struck piano keys rose from the speakers on my shelf, and a curious sort of calm filled the room, not exactly peaceful but relaxing. The world beyond my living room ceased to exist, the heat of the day and the noise from the road disappeared under the vibrations and harmonies of the piano and the occasional soft humming of Glenn Gould.

I've been listening to his masterful playing for a few weeks now, ever since I found his Goldberg Variations on Spotify. Now I've purchased his recording of Bach's French Suites, and I'm listening myself into a trance. Some critics disparage his playing as robotic tone twinkling, but I like the transparency of the sound and the clarity of each note, the surgical precision with which he plays. If there's one thing I mind, it's that it took me so long to discover this giant of music.

But now that I have I'm happy to end each day with him. I already forgot what I did today. Nothing special, I guess, just a regular Sunday.