What do we usually do at lunchtime on a typical day's work? Grab a slightly damp sandwich from the sandwich delivery boy and eat at the desk, typing with one hand? Or maybe take five or ten minutes in the "break out" (I emulate the vernacular but always tongue in cheek) area to flick through the two-month-old Hello magazines found there? Perhaps no time for lunch at all?
I know it's something of which we are all guilty. Heavens, we spend nine hours a day there, shouldn't we have just a little break?
So, I did.
A few weeks ago, I got in my car at lunchtime and drove to the far side of Putney, to a place I've seen as I drive past but never stopped to go in. This time, I did stop. Pulled on my winter coat and went for a walk.
I walked through vast wrought-iron gates and along paths which petered out to grass. Feet brushing against dewy dampness, not yet touched by the sun, I took a long, meandering walk. But I wasn't alone. On the left, a Laura Emma Wylie joined me. On the right, a Mr George Brooks and his beloved wife Tabitha. A little further along, partially concealed, I met Fanny Butts, formerly of Coldharbour Lane. I was surrounded by hundreds of people.
I find walking through a cemetery really quite comforting. They are always quiet, contemplative. Just a few birds and really not much more to disturb your thoughts. I like looking at the gravestones, seeing who was here before, finding a common link. For example, Laura Emma Wylie was married to John Wylie. The same name as my great-uncle who has just passed away after a long illness. I find myself imagining their lives, how they might have been, what they might have done. I like standing in the middle of them and picturing who could be standing right next to me. I like the peace and quiet, the colours of the moss on the old gravestones, the overgrown-ness of it all. A dash of yew here, a clamber of ivy there.
Maybe it's just the getting out of the office for an hour, into the fresh air. Perhaps I'd feel exactly the same had I headed to Richmond Park and taken a walk there, trodden in the footprints of the deer. But I think I'll keep coming back here. I'd like to see how it looks in spring, perhaps with a carpet of crocuses. Maybe a dog rose or two.
Certainly beats reading Hello magazine...
