It’s four in the morning and I can’t sleep. I’ve been working a lot of morning shifts, which you would think would see me getting up and going to bed early but in reality what happens is I just tire myself out and then spend a whole day asleep. Then I’m left stuck, waking up at 6pm and not feeling at all tired until at least four. The world is a strange place late at night. Up until about three it gets increasingly louder and rowdier, then everyone goes home to bed. By four the streets are silent. At five it is likely that the odd taxicab or cop-car will come by, dustmen, postmen and milkmen.
I lie in my bed and calmly contemplate the ceiling. It’s cold outside of bed. I have felt the temperature steadily fall ever since it got dark. Eventually I decide to give up. I decide that it might be a good idea to brave the cold and stop pretending I am going to sleep. I roll my feet out of bed. Drain the water on my bedside table.
I decide that it will be a great idea to put some proper clothes on, leave the house and head into the centre of town, in the middle of Bath there is this amazing all-night pastry place, ever since it opened it’s been a constant temptation. During my insomnia the idea of a Apple Danish, has been recurring in my mind like a pop song. I picture myself biting down on it, it crumbling on my teeth and lips. In my mind it is drizzled with that thin white icing, it is perfect.
My keys are on the coffee table, I scoop them up along with my wallet, push them into the pocket of my jacket and leave the flat.
The whole road is covered in snow. It’s still falling, thick flakes tumbling down that for some reason remind me of eyelashes. Thick and beautiful. The last time I saw snow I was up a mountain. It is strange and magical to have it come and visit me here, in my home town.
It’s rare to be alone in the city. Rare to be the first person to walk on snow in what will be a very busy street. It Squeeks and crumps beneath my feet. The unmistakable sound of snow, each footfall sounds like a muted avalanche.
I live where George Street meets the Paragon, after walking fifty feet or so, I can see all the way up Landsdown Hill. It looks like a ski-slope, the orange of the streetlights reflecting back up in circles, silhouetting the lights themselves against the snow.
I press on.
Snow reveals the secret life of the city, I see the tracks of birds, I see the padded footsteps of a fox where it has trotted between the cars. At the end of a line of tracks I see a tiny black cat sheltering beneath a car, it’s big eyes trying to suss me out and I bend down to get a better look at it.
Parked cars line my route, each with it’s own thick white blanket. Officially they will have to be moved in the morning, but honestly I don’t see how this is going to be possible.
I see a pair of cars, almost identical, facing each other. I smile as I draw a heart shape on each of their windshields. Now these cars are in love. As I walk on I start to imagine their owners, a man and a woman, both attractive, both lonely, both coming out to find my little piece of art. I wonder if this is how magic happens, this little whim of mine, I paint a picture of myself as an unwitting instrument of magic.
The Pastry shop is the only one that is open. The light from It’s big red sign floods the street. There are more tracks here, human tracks heading towards the doorway.
Inside I find a small group of stoner kids. Unsurprisingly they love this place, they are gathered around a red and white ‘family bag’ dolling out Almond Twists and a couple of those Pecan and Maple Latices. They are eating take out, but staying in the building to do it. This is probably because take out food is slightly cheaper. Restaurant food counts as a luxury and thus attracts VAT (sales tax) where as take out is a necessity and doesn’t. They look at me, wondering what to make of this new presence in their immediate vicinity. I take off my hat and head to the counter.
Tonight Moio’s Italian Pastry shop is staffed by a Polish guy whose name I don’t know, he has to wear a paper hat, red and white like everything else. I look at the Pastries behind the sneeze guard. Through glass they look even nicer, like paintings in a frame.
I pick out an Apple Danish and one of those square ones with half a canned peach in the middle. ‘To go, thanks’ I hand over my money and take a seat. He doesn’t seem to mind that everyone lies about eating in. I guess he is the guy that would have to do the washing up. This way he just has to empty the bins.
The group of students have almost finished their food. They loundly talk about how good their it tasted, they have their own language, I feel like I am in a foreign country, but one that I used to live in. I can understand most of what they say, but the occasional phrase is new.
“He can’t slix him up like that an spex him to just glide on it like it didn’t do… Cuz it did, man, it totally did.”
I smile to myself, look at the group. This time of night doesn’t belong to me, it belongs to them, my kind should be at home in bed. They pick up their mess and drop it into one of the bins on the way out, leaving me thoughtfully chewing over my Danish.
On my way home I draw in the snow on several more cars, I get creative, start doing things that I don’t think other people would think of doing, sharks, a duck a cartoon bunny rabbit with big googly eyes. I fantasise about doing every car in Bath, about the whole town waking up to find a picture on their windscreen but in the end I don’t even do all the cars on my way home.
