My world has a two mile radius, aside from Wednesday when I make an anomalous journey of ten miles to Hackney. I walk almost everywhere; I am familiar with every bus route for times when I am tired or rushed. London is a village now, especially in the daytimes when there is no sense of rush. There is time to stop and watch the parakeets squabbling in the trees, or stroke a cat on a wall for minutes at a time, or take the longer route just because.
And in this village I have formed tiny relationships with people who regularly cross my path. There is Simon, the marshal at parkrun who I wave to three times as I loop round the course and then stop to chat to on the way home. He was the first person I told when I got a new PB, sweaty and giddy and wobbly with endorphins, because sharing it with someone was important, just doing it wasn’t enough. There is Patrick, the lifeguard at the lido to whom I shout a cheery hello when I arrive, mainly so he knows I am there, so he looks up from his book while I swim, in case I get in trouble, in case I start to drown. There is Yvette, who puts her mat behind mine once a week in body balance at the gym, whom I’ve talked to about the best classes and being mixed-race and dead dads. There is Kate, the counsellor in the room next to mine, whose door I bang on when I arrive to see if she wants a cup of tea and a chat. I go in and sit among her sea of papers as she gets ready for her clients. I hear her sometimes through the wall and wonder if her clients feel as safe and content as I do when I sit with her.
And there’s the ever-changing cast of other people: the women leaving the lido as I arrive who say ‘enjoy your swim!’ as they buzz with endorphins; the runners I chat to in the finishers’ queue at parkrun as we catch our breath and check our watches; the dog walkers who nod hello when I smile at their pets.
And they all matter, all these tiny connections. They are important in a way I would have dismissed years ago. It’s easy for me to spend an entire day on my own now, and I need these moments with other people more than ever. They are tiny anchors that reassure me that I am still here, I am real, I matter.
I swim, now 