So… here’s the thing. I’m not like Disney’s Rapuntzel (who, when she makes a promise NEVR EVER breaks it. Have I told you my BA thesis was about Disney princesses?). I break them. Especially the ones I make to my (imaginary) blog readers. So, here’s a few excuses why the thing I said was going to happen every Wednesday didn’t: first Wednesday I didn’t have Internet, then my cousin came to visit and we had too much fun together to bother writing something and … you know… I’m forgetful (More about that tomorrow). There’s also the small issue that once you start looking for awesome things happening around you, nothing happens. So we’ll make this London vignette thing a monthly thing? Biweekly maybe? Not even a thing? We’ll see. But anyway, here’s number two, the one I started writing three weeks ago, when it still felt like summer here…
Where thoughts go to die
It’s useless. I tried unsticking the shirt from my body twenty times in the last ten minutes, but the air is to warm and too moist and I’m sweating as if I’m walking through a tropical jungle, not an east London marsh. The trees are tall and old and the undergrowth dense and strong. The only thing that makes it obvious we’re not somewhere near the equator are all of the people trying to enjoy this hot summer Sunday outside. They turn the forest path into a hipster boulevard.
I’m doing my best not to complain too much about people who don’t know anything about cycling-pedestrian etiquette, the number of men with beards and other hip stuff until something catches my eye… And it’s just…
There’s coconuts, all over the side of the path. A very unusual number of coconuts, piled in-between the nettles. They all seem to gravitate toward an opening in-between the tall green plants, into the forest. And they do, because these coconuts, are not random coconuts. They’re arty coconuts. Someone has carefully positioned them around a pile of sawdust with a hole in the middle, making in seem like there some sort of ritualistic sacrificing going on. And there’s a sign, nestled in the middle of the hairy brown globs. “Where thoughts go to die.”
Just when I’m about to start my rant about the wasting of food, a noise growing louder and louder stops me. There’s something rhythmical in the air, suspiciously similar to ceremonial drums. I guess I must be going mad from the heat and my thoughts are really on their path to death, escorted by the coconuts, waiting to be sacrificed to the hollow coconut gods.
But then something completely normal happens.