School is a mile and a quarter walk from our house, a two and a half mile round trip that I repeat twice daily five days a week. The seasons change, some days we roast and swelter as we amble through air thick with summer heat, some days we stumble under the weight of waterproofs, wading through torrents and blusteriness.
We chat, me and my boys, about all sorts really. Some days we have ethical discussions, or talk about the universe, most days it’s about minecraft.
It’s a nice place, my town. Pretty. But however pretty it is, taking the same 45 minute stroll, twice a day, 5 days a week, is a bit boring to be frank. So I cheer myself up on my solo halves of the journey with music.
It’s funny how the weather and the sounds in your ears can make you feel completely different. A bit of Kate Bush on a misty but bright morning makes me ethereal. I am floating down the road, swooshing my long skirts though the dewy grass, even if I am in jeans and on a pavement. I imagine the day laid out before me will be spent writing poetry, in a rural cottage with an open fire and a collie by my feet. Of course that magic snaps away as I step through the front door and encounter the tangle of pants and pyjamas and cereal bowls that the morning rush has left strewn before me.
Other days my shuffle might bring me some Sleaford Mods. I am angry and I stomp down the road, determined to rebel, revolt against the current miserable status quo. My pretty, rural town fades into a grey, industrial city, derelict factories in the corners of my eyes. Determined to say something eloquent on the state of society I decide I shall get home and write something wry and pithy about the government. And sometimes I do. And sometimes by the time I am in my warm house with dry socks I think, yeah, we are poor, and yeah, the government is screwing the people, but I l have my home, my family and am surrounded by enough love to keep the horrors at bay, for today at least.
Other days the Pixies remind me I want to be Kim Deal still. When I get in that front door I am going to pick up my bass guitar and write some classic quirky indie Rock’n’Roll. Mostly I get in the door and if I manage not to be distracted by the prospect of box sets on Netflix, I pick up my bass, spend a merry ten minutes playing Debaser to myself before remembering I need to stick some washing on.
Or perhaps a bit of sleazy rock will come on, some Queens of the Stone Age, or this week the Eagles of Death Metal. (and oh how my heart goes out to them at the moment) I stride along with their cover of ‘Save A Prayer’ pounding in my ears and I feel sexy and cool and probably like I am going to feature in Pulp Fiction wearing a stylish leather trench coat and selling some sort of drugs. As I confidently swing open my front door, practicing my New York accent, I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror. And remember I am not in a Tarantino movie, I am a slightly fat mother of 42, wearing a sodden turquoise rain coat handed down to me by my Mum.
Having a soundtrack totally changes that walk home. I am in a movie of my own imagination. Life is cooler. More interesting, takes on a cinematic feel. I am not a mum on the long walk home, I am a character in a quirky film. Instead of groundhog mornings I feature in a series of interesting short vignettes, starring me and filmed in my mind’s eye. Just call me Francis Cisco Coppola.
Love Miss Cisco XXX