or search for 'martin cadwell -caldwell' Take note of the position of the minus sign to eliminate caldwell returns or search for 'martin cadwell blog' in your browser.
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[ 3 minute read ]
Eye the road
When I look out my window, I see in my neighbour's little pillar-box-red car. It is clean and bright but only after it has rained. Under the veneer of its shell I know it is fading. Parked over a grass and weed-ridden gravel drive the floor will soon give way. It never moves though. They hand-brake is pulled hard on and if someone one day starts the engine there will be instant wear. If it could talk, it would say, 'I tried, but you stopped loving me.' It might then jealously eye my neighbour's black BMW next to it. The BMW is used; I can tell because the ruts in the drive where the gravel has been scraped away by its wide tyres get deeper and fill with muddier rainwater after every few times my neighbour aggressively brakes to a sudden stop.
The Ash tree on the other side of the road is only remembered to have been alive before the Summer of 2022. The people in the house want time to go backwards so they can water it at the right time. While they fruitlessly wait for magic to get lost and knock on their door, they are slowly realising that the thick, chunky, and heavily over-pruned smooth limbs will never again sprout small green twigs. Deemed to be too expensive to remove, it is a monument to despair.
Each weekday, four-year-old helmeted Hugo peddles past with his dad following on his bike. Hugois so happy and curious, and thinks that everything I leave outside my house is for him alone. His parents have to police his free hands. One day, he saw that I had some toilet roll in my basket. I had just bought it from the shop. He thought that I should have shared it with him. Sometimes, I have to hide from him because I don't wear a helmet when I cycle, and he always asks me why not. He thinks I have a really bad memory.
If the right window is open I can hear a distant neighbour let his small motorbike tick over to warm it before he speeds past my house. Old ideas about engine oil seem stronger than recent knowledge ofmodern mineral oils to him. He often tries to menace me with his stormy face, by holding my nonchalant stare. If I was a woman I would fancy him. Except for his age, I am jealous.
At the bottom of the road, there lives a man blind in one eye from 'arc-eye'; he thought he could weld without a mask. At Christmas, he and his wife were the only ones in ourroad to have decorations on their lawn, Now, the elderly chap opposite them, with the new picket fence, and active middle-fingerwhen he sees me, has some too. It is easy to forget what analogue candles and lanterns once looked like these days. I don't offer any contrast.
From my Window
All my posts: https://learn1.open.ac.uk/mod/oublog/view.php?u=zw219551
or search for 'martin cadwell -caldwell' Take note of the position of the minus sign to eliminate caldwell returns or search for 'martin cadwell blog' in your browser.
I am not on YouTube or social media
[ 3 minute read ]
Eye the road
When I look out my window, I see in my neighbour's little pillar-box-red car. It is clean and bright but only after it has rained. Under the veneer of its shell I know it is fading. Parked over a grass and weed-ridden gravel drive the floor will soon give way. It never moves though. They hand-brake is pulled hard on and if someone one day starts the engine there will be instant wear. If it could talk, it would say, 'I tried, but you stopped loving me.' It might then jealously eye my neighbour's black BMW next to it. The BMW is used; I can tell because the ruts in the drive where the gravel has been scraped away by its wide tyres get deeper and fill with muddier rainwater after every few times my neighbour aggressively brakes to a sudden stop.
The Ash tree on the other side of the road is only remembered to have been alive before the Summer of 2022. The people in the house want time to go backwards so they can water it at the right time. While they fruitlessly wait for magic to get lost and knock on their door, they are slowly realising that the thick, chunky, and heavily over-pruned smooth limbs will never again sprout small green twigs. Deemed to be too expensive to remove, it is a monument to despair.
Each weekday, four-year-old helmeted Hugo peddles past with his dad following on his bike. Hugo is so happy and curious, and thinks that everything I leave outside my house is for him alone. His parents have to police his free hands. One day, he saw that I had some toilet roll in my basket. I had just bought it from the shop. He thought that I should have shared it with him. Sometimes, I have to hide from him because I don't wear a helmet when I cycle, and he always asks me why not. He thinks I have a really bad memory.
If the right window is open I can hear a distant neighbour let his small motorbike tick over to warm it before he speeds past my house. Old ideas about engine oil seem stronger than recent knowledge of modern mineral oils to him. He often tries to menace me with his stormy face, by holding my nonchalant stare. If I was a woman I would fancy him. Except for his age, I am jealous.
At the bottom of the road, there lives a man blind in one eye from 'arc-eye'; he thought he could weld without a mask. At Christmas, he and his wife were the only ones in our road to have decorations on their lawn, Now, the elderly chap opposite them, with the new picket fence, and active middle-finger when he sees me, has some too. It is easy to forget what analogue candles and lanterns once looked like these days. I don't offer any contrast.