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Cold Comfort Sunday
Jun. 22nd, 2008 02:53 pmThis summer day feels like the early stages of autumn. A cool breeze shakes the pollen off the trees in Victoria Park as if they were dead leaves. The sun lights everything with a golden brown intensity, a nostalgic feeling that summer is over. The fields are empty, apart from a few junior teams playing football. Hardly anyone about; even the few dogs we see seem disconcerted with the lack of people outdoors.
At the park's eastern side, we stop by a plinth erected in honour of the men from Hackney Wick that died during the First World War. I've run and walked past this plinth countless times but never noticed it before.
There's more life on this side of the park. A few colourful kites struggle upwards, then dive fast and hit the ground. A boy with his guitar walks between the trees; the tennis courts are busy; a jogger rests on the grass that is more like a carpet of withered daisies. Nobody is watching the kites, apart from me and my Holga 120 GCFN camera. Overexposed.
The park's full circuit leads us to the cafe by the lake. It's busy as usual. We order white coffees and two fairy cakes. Mine has marine green icing with sprinkles of tiny pink hearts. We find a bench behind the cafe, by the bike stand, where we can watch the lake as well as the joggers' path. Kevin reads Cold Comfort Farm while I write in this notebook. The couple sitting on the bench nearest to us appear to be unemployed actors; they are complaining about directors who don't know what they do. The girl keeps knocking her bottle of water to the ground, then talks very loudly on her mobile phone when she receives a dinner invitation from a friend. Kevin rolls his eyes.
At the park's eastern side, we stop by a plinth erected in honour of the men from Hackney Wick that died during the First World War. I've run and walked past this plinth countless times but never noticed it before.
There's more life on this side of the park. A few colourful kites struggle upwards, then dive fast and hit the ground. A boy with his guitar walks between the trees; the tennis courts are busy; a jogger rests on the grass that is more like a carpet of withered daisies. Nobody is watching the kites, apart from me and my Holga 120 GCFN camera. Overexposed.
The park's full circuit leads us to the cafe by the lake. It's busy as usual. We order white coffees and two fairy cakes. Mine has marine green icing with sprinkles of tiny pink hearts. We find a bench behind the cafe, by the bike stand, where we can watch the lake as well as the joggers' path. Kevin reads Cold Comfort Farm while I write in this notebook. The couple sitting on the bench nearest to us appear to be unemployed actors; they are complaining about directors who don't know what they do. The girl keeps knocking her bottle of water to the ground, then talks very loudly on her mobile phone when she receives a dinner invitation from a friend. Kevin rolls his eyes.
