Tid-Bits

Last term, I had a young female professor who I really liked (okay, I had a bit of a girl crush on her). She fed us tea (from a jolly red teapot) and biscuits each week, knew where to find old black & white films on YouTube, wore purple tights with her cute heels, and was a James Joyce scholar (I just have automatic respect for anyone who listens to Joyce audio books while hoovering). I could've written a whole blog post about her and I would've called it "A Portrait of a Young Professor" (what would Joyce think of my making his book titles pun-ny?!). Anyways, in her office she keeps copies of a turn-of-the-century British magazine, Tit-Bits. This magazine, much criticized by the intellectuals of the time, was designed with the busy working man in mind. Made entirely of short snippets of news and entertainment, it was perfect for the commuter who could only read on the train between stops, or on a lunch break.

As last term quickly turned into the holidays, and the holidays quickly turned into a busy new semester, I thought of this magazine with its small, but bright, bits of gossip, stories and articles. In a whirlwind of activities –– paper-writing, visiting family, studying, bundling up against snow and rain, going to church or work, a bit of gallivanting, and always reading –– I’ve barely had time to reflect (which for me means writing). Instead, I feel as though I’ve been parading through a series of images –– or perhaps short story snippets like in Tit-Bits. Looking through my journal from the last few months, amidst the To-Do lists, lecture notes, scribbled verses, and National Rail confirmation numbers, I had jotted down short impressions, stories and thoughts about my life. It’s definitely not Joyce, and it’s definitely not in-depth, but it reminds me that the small bits of my life are very bright . . .

***

She stands in the rain, hood tucked close, waiting to cross the street. Her left foot is in a puddle. She watches a couple walking out of the pub. Easy, gentle, brushing familiar arms.

The toast browns around the edges, but doesn't burn. The kettle bubbles and hushes.

The library is crowded. A student at the next desk eats a sandwich, looking around nervously. Someone in the lower level drops a reference book, and it echos deep and hollow. A brown-haired girl writes letters to home:

            I'm wearing your sweater today, the one I stole and never gave back. I sat reading at the park all morning long, until it was too cold to feel my nose and it started raining. Kind of an icy rain, too. The leaves have all fallen, and it's Dicken's England now.  I'm hoping for snow soon, which turns everything glamorous and magical again. I bought a jacket with elbow patches that seemed too perfect to pass up, and I wear my scarf up close to my nose to keep warm. 
           I just came from a seminar with the man who will help supervise my dissertation. He's Irish and made us meditate before beginning class. (Palms up, eyes closed, receive sunshine down your spine, breath and smile.) He's an Oxford man and and American Lit (specifically Henry James) specialist. He had the kindest eyes and the most intelligent way of speaking that's simultaneously inspiring and intimidating, managing to be both warm and demanding. I sometimes wish I had a more forceful personality like that. 
           Anyways, it's a beautiful winter day here. If you were here, we would love it, and then we'd go for a pint. 
           Missing you.

A fox wanders through a dark park. Two drunk girls across the street laugh and point, sending it scampering into the trees. The air is pressing and cold, clouded with heavy puffs of breath.

She catches a lift to work with Ally. In the long winter days, the sun isn't fully up by 8 a.m., the time when they arrange to meet at the corner near the train station. Ally wears her gray wool hat on the drive; the heater in the car is broken and can't be fixed until her paycheck at the end of the month. When we sing along to the radio, the windows fog. A line of traffic snakes slowly through the roundabout and threads up and down, past the towns and white meadows. Harrogate: 9 more miles.

A man smokes outside the One Stop, back against graffitied brick. He watches a brown-haired girl leave the store with a bottle of wine. He asks her for spare change. She has a pound in her pocket to give.

Her flat feels Parisian; the girl down the corridor plays the accordion softly during long afternoons.

On our walk around town, we look into the windows of the flats lining the narrow streets. We see TVs blinking, toys scattered over carpets, dying ferns, polk-a-dotted curtains closed tight. A woman naps in the dusk; she hasn't turned on the lamp. At one window, we walk by several times and take turns looking. We smile with delight. A dear old man sits in his deep armchair, pulled up close to the lit fire. The room is painted yellow, sunny and soft, lined with vintage paintings and posters. His glass of red wine sits on the table as he flips through a stack of postcards. Collectibles? Love notes from a someone long gone? A traveling son or daughter? In the cold twilight, the scene is warm. Then we keep walking, holding hands.

In the early morning before the dawn –– when the night is gray-blue and all is quiet –– a light turns on in the window across the courtyard, painting a single square out on the fresh snow. Flakes fall in silent sheets. There are no footprints; all is white.

The bakery stays open until 17:00 on Saturdays. In the afternoons, the tables are crowded with mums and dads, visiting for the weekend. The couples sit close together on the couches, and the chatting groups of girls take over the corner chairs for hours. Some days, the scones are soft and light; some days, they are a little brown with a hint of cinnamon –– but always smothered in butter and jam. The walls are papered with loud purple flowers, starting to peel at the ceiling. That's part of the charm. An old-fashioned radio sits on the book shelves, and tea cups rattle on every table.