When all you can do is walk
I want to walk. I want to walk and walk and walk. The dog wants to stop and sniff but I am not in the mood for dawdling. I want to walk the war in my chest out of me. My feet are venting machines. They punch the ground like boxer’s gloves. I head towards the oval and determine not to engage other dog-walkers. I fix my gaze on the path in front and hope my body language will be enough to alert would-be conversationalists to my mood. If the little man in the beret tries to bail me up with another one of his sexist jokes I might kick him in the shins. This morning my fridge has turned up its toes. The ice-cream is the consistency of mousse and my teenagers could consume one of the frozen juice bars in one slurp and gulp. The fridge technician who I have filled in on the phone suspects it’s the compressor. I’ll be looking to outlay around the same cost as a new fridge to replace it. But check the door is sealing properly, he suggests, and wait forty-eight hours just in case. I pass t