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w w w k i e r o n d e v l i n . c o m
Good WalkingMad Morning
by Kieron Devlin
 D
estination Bond Street, thoughI’m no Mr. Bond. I just walk towork each day. I do the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other method.It gets me there.
It starts at Tysoe Street, the newspa-per stand. Then into the Exmouth Marketwith its pastel facades, smell of coffee andbaking pastries. The church of the WhollyLost and Irredeemable casts a shadow onthe broken pavement. Then I walk pastthe Pharmacy where Madonna made herfilm Filth and Wisdom, about ‘all the loveand poison of London.’I count the people of London I pass eachday.1) He does not pass me I pass him. Hestands swaying, ruddy faced, beer can inhand, carrying a beer can as though he’sbeen rooted to the spot all night. I walkaround him in case he shouts abuse.2) A young man, smart as a buffed-upbutton, perhaps an architect or designer?Tall, angular, sensitive face, well dressed,
‘‘The walk al-lows me to ignorethe stress of get-ting there and backeach day. It givesme a chance tobreathe in the city’sfamous ripped back-sides.Walking allows meto take time slowly,even if my pace isfast
.
It settles problemsand enables me tolet stuff go.’’
 
w w w k i e r o n d e v l i n . c o m
stork-like. His eyes are warily in-trigued, and look away - a hint he’saware of me and I of him. If he’s notthere, I wonder if he thinks about mein the same way to know he’s late. Imeasure time by him, if early or late,noting where he passes me. If he’snot there, I miss him.Rose of Roseberry Avenue, without asingle rose petal strewn in my way.Plus the hot fat smell of frying baconand sausage breakfast from the work-ing men’s café, stuffed into dollopsmargarine-filled white wedge bread.The Avenue is grey, except in sun-light. I pass Mount UnPleasant sort-ing office where the post office workersare on strike.Then I pass the Antoni and Alisonshop. This cornerstone building is likea narrow beige Lego brick placed up-side down, with painted and embroi-dered handbags in its window.Now I’m under a natural pergola of trees across the road, darkening thedaylight. Two months back, a manhad his mobile stolen here. He freakedout and climbed up a very tall tree.He got so high he was afraid to getdown. The fire brigade and policeblocked off Clerkenwell Road. Theyshouted to him on loud speakers toget down, but he panicked. His Englishwasn’t great. He shook his head andclimbed further up. A crowd gathered –people actually spoke to each oth-er. People pointed at the ‘crazy’ guy.The Police were on the look out foranyone who could translate Hungarian.Even a multi-lingual Russian said he just didn’t have Hungarian. The manstayed up that tree for hours, keepingthe road blocked.Now it’s Cavendish Mansions. The oldgrey-brown Victorian monstrosity of flats. An old friend died in this build-ing. He lived on the top floor. His im-age comes to prod me on the shoulderwith warnings. He used to rail againstthe corrupt ways of the modern world.The future’s definitely not what it usedto be, he said. His death from muscu-lar atrophy surprised me as he’d fooledus all consistently about his age. Weall thought he was ten years younger.The top floor has a treacherous flightof stairs where even I nearly broke a‘‘like a narrow beige lego brickplaced upside down’’
 
w w w k i e r o n d e v l i n . c o m
‘‘
plus the hot fat smell of frying bacon and sausagebreakfast from the workingmen’s cafe, stuffedinto dol-lops
of margarine-lled
white wedge bread.’’
 
w w w k i e r o n d e v l i n . c o m
leg. I stayed here one dark and gloomyChristmas in the confinement of hisnever-furnished flat. I wonder wholives there now? A family of six from Afghanistan, Colombia or Rumania?Gearing up now, at Theobald’s Road, Iget long and loose in my stride; Iovertake other walkers. I nod towardsthe Museum on Doughty Street, whereDickens lived for five years. He placedFagin and Oliver in nearby Saffron Hillwhen Farringdon train line was the RiverFleet. Dickens may have walked thisway too, through the mud and slime of the river Fleet. I imagine what Dickenswould think of modern London. Whatnovels would he write today? Imaginethere’s no heaven, no religion too,some hope. What about no buses? NoTube, and everyone walking? A futurewithout cars would be a good enoughstart for the Lennonscape of London toemerge from the ideal inner vision.The mass of cyclists now beating carsto swerve around to Red Lion Square.I cut away here from the bus route, topass the Cochrane Theatre, so I calcu-late I probably walk faster to work thanthe two buses would take.Passerby 3) Holborn Library doorway isa huge recess, perfect for the homelessto form a makeshift bedroom. There’sa tramp with long-and-short-knotteddreadlocks. He carries his whole lifein a filthy backpack. A whiff of hiscoat blasts a few feet around him.One morning, I saw him calmly ly-ing back on library steps wrapped ina brown sleeping bag, as though thiswas the comfiest of beds with freshcotton sheets. He had probably nothad a bath or shower for weeks, yethe was coolly absorbed in trimminghis nails with nail clippers.
 
I cross Southampton Row, The Co-chrane theatre - old home of Ram-bert, and am building up the longballetic strides. People sun them-selves having breakfast in BloomsburySquare Gardens.Passerby 4) lady with the wind-blown hair, carefully styled when sheleft home passes. Full make-up, thatmust have taken an hour to do. Sheclutches her jumbo-sized large cupof coffee and a bag of greasy cr-oissant, cigarette poised between fin-gers. Smoke fills pavements now. Theair is cleaner inside pubs. What a‘‘he was coolly absorbed in trim-ming his nails with nail clippers’’I ‘‘I get long andloose in my stride’’
of 00

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