PHOTOGRAPHY AND TEXT BY KEVIN MULLINS
It's been 7 hours and fifteen days…. That's what Prince said, right?
Well, Prince was flatly wrong.
It's been 1,560 hours and one day since you took your love away.
That's how long we, in the United Kingdom, have so far been under the stay at home directive.
This figure seems insane. And the reason it looks insane is that it is, actually, insane.
65 days and counting.
When I penned my last Definitions post, I had an inkling my next one would also be written from my living room window rather than my studio.
And so it comes to pass, here I am, in my living room window.
Again.
Incongruously, I've made quite some acquaintance with the passers-by.
I see the man that looks like a little boy every morning at 6:45 am walking his dog.
Shortly after, there are two aggressive dog walkers. How their poor pooches keep up, I have no idea. They often yap.
Incidentally, the aggressive dog walkers were the first people I saw with masks and I've noticed their masks have changed colour from bright and clinical turquoise to a somewhat translucent and worryingly dirty looking cyan. I guess that’s what happens after 1,650 hours and one day.
Just before I stop for lunch and call the kids from their games consoles, I take some time to think about all those people who are having to home school their children. Poor things.
Around 2:30 pm, Naughty Norman goes by. I've known Naughty Norman for years.
He lives six doors away. He's in his late 70's and has never been married. I don't know why we call him Naughty Norman.
At precisely three minutes past three. Every day. A red BMW with blacked-out windows drives past. The car is always spotless.
Once, near the beginning, I built a fantasy in my head that it was Prince Charles, or maybe, even, James Dyson. I don’t expect it is.
Later in the afternoon, habitually comes the joggers.
I used to be a jogger.
I despise joggers.
I watch them pouting and all upright like excited Gazelles. Trit, Trott. Trit Trott.
I look at joggers like a goldfish might look at the family dog lounging by the open fire.
Then, usually about the same time as most families are putting their young children to bed, come hundreds of middle-aged, rotund men, on suspiciously new looking bicycles (essential purchases you understand!).
Puffing and pedalling for all their might. Crystal clear water is tucked away in capsules between their otherwise-corporate legs. Mobile phones fight for space with keys to Audi’s or BMW’s in tiny pockets nestled at the base of their spines.
I imagine they are trying to lose a couple of pounds so they can surprise their wives after the dinner and dishes are done. Bless them.
Later in the night, usually around 9 pm, I see the man that looks like a little boy again.
I used to think....tsk, one walk only a day. That's the rule.
But he has been good to me, the man that looks like a little boy because he marks the anchor points in my day. Time for bed.
In the meantime, here are some photos of flowers I've taken recently.
Still, life goes on
(See what I did there?)
