By Aodhan Shadlow
This piece won the People’s Choice Award in our first Flash Fiction Competition of the year. It also appeared as a featured article in volume 95, issue four of Pelican. You can view our print archive here.
If that building is a mere seven minutes away, then I shall be in the park within six minutes, perhaps six and a half allotting for a slight hold up. Then I can rest, yes-yes, my legs will stop burning and the wind shall stop battering my face, turning it that horrid red a wind that is just ever so slightly too cold turns a face. It is only 7º today, brisk to say the least, and I have no gloves or scarf as I went to buy gloves and a scarf yesterday but decided against it as all the gloves and scarves I found didn’t suit my idea of gloves and a scarf. My, this street is horrid, desolate even. Perhaps, that is harsh, but this really isn’t my idea of London, it being all commercial and financeish, entirely devoid of character; and, after all, what ranks as more important to a city than its character? God forbid people walk at a consistent pace; I am sure to bowl someone over at this rate, but simply put, if you are in London, you must walk at a consistent pace. No, no, no, no, no don’t stop at the lights! What will they do? Run you over? Only if you’re lucky. Blasted maps! I simply wanted to walk through the park, but it insisted on my taking the sultry Northern Line, which ended with me at bloody Euston Station! There is a fun song about a train going on to Euston; perhaps I should listen to it now. Dear god! These agitating people simply must move before I take a fit! I have a park to see don’t you know! Ah, finally, there we are, I can see the heavily hedged, black pike topped gates enclosing all the park has to offer in the way of reverie. Ooo, look at these houses – well, I should think they are houses. Then again, they could be flats built in order to maintain appearances around the park while inside each floor constitutes its own flat. No, these must be houses – they would not dare do something so unbecoming next to Regent’s – this is, after all, where our betters live. In either case, they have character! They are built with decadence and attention – they are in fact quite Parisian – what more could one hope for? There are four clay chimneys atop one segment, then eight atop the next, all away along the flattened roof (So Parisian), with quaint white framed circular windows running just underneath the ridges – two per segment. Oh, so many windows all the way down the façade as well, such decadence one can only dream of. To speak of the façade, I must make note of the exhilarating colour it has taken; it is almost a beige, a sun worn sandy colour – some may say the furthest thing from exhilarating but what could possibly excite one more than to be reminded of Paris. There are balconies on the third and fourth stories, little wrought iron balconies on the fourth story windows, sitting on top of larger French-windowed balconies on the third floor – these could not possibly be anything other than town houses; I could sit and admire their character all the day long, but I mustn’t, I shall go on to the park rather than linger where I do not belong. Ah, there we are, the next entrance, sporting a large map of the Regent’s grounds. Though, of course, one does not need a map to wander through a park, today I would like to reach Primrose hill – so as to converse with my notebook – and would rather prefer to not lose my way en-route. Primrose is truly wonderful, it’s windy there and the views so nice – you can even roll down the hill, though I doubt that would be much good on my own. The path is littered with beautiful, perfectly shallow puddles, reflecting the picturesque falling leaves as they
make their way from the autumn dressed trees. The grass is vividly green – some may even say verdant – despite it being the middle of November, a true miracle. Some of the fallen leaves are gathered along the path edges adorning the park’s walkways with a variety of autumnal shades – deep hues of orange, crisp browns and so forth. Oh! Look at that tree! Now that is a tree; branches trimmed so that the leaves hang uniformly 7 feet above the ground, dressed in a perfectly sparse coat for the season, while a collection of leaves who have drifted to their winter homes have gathered below; utter perfection. The main path is just ahead now; it’s ever so wide with so many pacing up and down its length, lost in the awe that is naturally brought on when taking a dander through a park such as this. The path stretches so far, in fact, it runs all the way up to Primrose hill – or thereabouts. I cannot wait to make that pilgrimage, however, for now, there is a bench sat just in front of a stone fountain, hemmed in by hedges, beckoning me with all its might to sit down for a moment, just a moment, and take in the day; feel the cold air without bitterness and revel in the unparalleled enjoyment of people-watching, even perhaps to write a quick poem in my notebook; and who would I be if I refused such a pleasant invitation.