The heatwave arrived in London taking everyone by surprise. After rain, there must be sun, and plenty of that it turns. The scorching heat had hit my morning in full force through the open window, and brought with it a drought and desolation of the late May. I have plenty of reasons to have a rather rocky relationship with May. Even more so to list all the May-ish things that made up this Saturday, a delicate time that suddently knitted some tiny miracles.
Fly hunting and compost bins
Two things that can, incidentally, fill you with joy if your mindset is right. Throught the afternoon, I listened to a long voicemail left for me by a dear friend of mine, while embarking on a futile mission of fly safari. Flies kept coming through my open windows and balcony door, and since that's a lot of directions, their routes were almost impossible to trace. I chased them across the room frantically trying to catch some, or, preferably, redirect them towards the exits. The large, noisy ones are easier. These are the ones who desperately want to get out. I have my special strategy for them- the idea is to show them the way with the use of broomsticks and by opening and closing different windows, pulling the curtains up and down, until they're safely back on track. Sometimes, I run out of ideas, and then I just frantically wave my arms as if hoping that they understand my directions. The small ones, however, are a different matter. They seem to gravitate towards the inside, making loops under the ceiling as if searching for the nest. They seem determined to move in and waiting for a safe place to drop their suitcases. These, I try to scare. Sometimes by jumping, sometimes shouting, sometimes moving in a chaotic way until they understand I am not a creature to be reasoned with. If desperate, I try to catch them in my hands. But both, them and I, know I can never squash them.
At the end of fly hunting I drop onto the sofa, exhausted. The battle is never fully won, even if I am proud of my achievement. With the next heat, the next humidity, the next rays of sunshine, the flies will come again, to be chased around into exhaustion.
Meanwhile, as I was engaged in my game the voicemail kept playing. In another country, in the afternoon sun, my friend was cleaning her compost bin. An ungrateful job, she said, but once done it is done, just as fixing the door to her shed, which she had done a few days ago. She has a place outside her house which she calls 'housefront', a green space opening onto a field with a distant view of a river. The compost bin is also placed there, on the 'housefront', a multipurpose space to take in some sun, gather resources, collect the fresh grass. The compost bin also makes the 'housefront' filled with flies, but my friend doesn't like to chase them. They stick to the outside.
The story of the compost bin reminded me of 'The Summer Book' by Tove Jansson, and the life the main characters had on the island. Even if often muddy, wet, or ugly, also miraculous and calm. On the bottom of scorching, sunny days, there's an ugly beauty of compost bins and flies.
Glitterati
When we didn't talk about flies and cleaning compost bins, we compared our recent visits to small local shops. On one end of Columbia Road, there's a shop called 'Glitterati'. It's essentially a shop with vintage glass, books, and other antiques, as a quick Google search would tel you. At first glance, it's easy to miss and it's front looks so old as if almost abandoned. Not abandoned by feelings though. Through it's glass-stack window, there's a beating heart pulling you in. It's difficult not to stop outside, next to a display of boxes filled with books. There's more books inside, some arranged on the shelves and some stacked inside even more boxes, inviting you to rummage through. The books are accompanied by ever-present vintage glass, with glasses and flutes of different shape and purpose. It's hard to turn without finding yourself face to face with glass, in delightful company of books. Walking in feels like stepping into another world. I could spend there all day, if not the rest of my life.
I told my friend how today I accidentally got lost on my way home, and found myself in front of Glitterati. Each time it happens the shop seems to carry the exact book I want to read at present, like it read my mind and then pulled me in by some paranormal force. And maybe that's what this shop is doing, since every time I'm there I feel a sudden wave of camaraderie with other customers, as if we were all equally compelled.
As I was losing my battle with flies, ending the day with no conquest, the sun gently set outside my window. I turned my light switch on and found another voicemail. My friend's son had returned home and found the newly clean compost bin standing outside down on the lawn. He said it almost looked like it was put in there as an ornament.
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