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THE ANXIETY OF 100 YARDS
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Non Military Steady even paces, watching for those nasty cracks, keeping in the centre of the pavement, trying to look carefree and nonchalant. Tell yourself its only a pavement if you like , but you know that wont actually help don’t you?
The brisk chill of the December morning strangely makes you start to sweat. To the casual observer your short walk is mundane and nondescript you are just another fly in an urban swarm. To you its as difficult as climbing Everest in your flip flops whilst wearing a Tuxedo. 100 yards, no big deal, right?
Like a snipers wayward bullet the flickering rustle of a crisp packet in the periphery of your eye almost makes you leap into the main road in front of a those `mocking` red buses. Eyes zero in on your tormentor cheese & onion flavour. The litterbug who discarded this could never have imagined the haunting psychological terror it has brought to a pedestrian. You know the drill, you should by now, if the crisp packet reaches the end of the pavement before you do then you will be dead before five O’clock. Your own rules forbid you from speeding up, to walk quicker would mean that something terrible would happen to your family. If only the breeze would lessen for a few seconds. Suddenly the packet stops as it hit’s the side of wall, “Oh my God thank you” elated you still maintain the same cautious even paces making sure not to look directly at the crisp packet as this would once again trigger its movement. This battle seems to be endless and leaves you exhausted but it has only been raging for exactly two minutes and twenty four seconds. Keep your left eye shut and it wont move not forgetting to put your right hand in your right trouser pocket, not forgetting to keep your thumb tip exposed. As a gust spiralled the packet into the air your heart almost stops and you feel like collapsing and falling to the ground sobbing and wailing. It surly has a life of its own and can feel your pain and enjoys your suffering. Then as quickly as it all began its is all over as a young boy on a bike inadvertently collects the packet in his spokes taking it in the correct direction towards you. You now no longer have to repeat the ritual of taking the litter home with you in your left trouser pocket folded into six and then placing it in your purple bag inside your wardrobe with the 251 other crisp packets. Once you have collected 261 you can empty the contents of the bag into your wheelie bin at midnight on a Wednesday. Crisis over for now you turn left at the end of the pavement hoping you can make it the next hundred yards to the Post Office, Fingers Crossed.
© Tony McNally
