Bovary

Inside Outside

Sketching over a double page like a real illustrator.

On Friday afternoon I sat in the car on Hamilton Gardens, a residential enclave of St John’s Wood, for quite a long time. I’d been there before when I was 22 because I was going out with a boy whose mum lived at number 10. I liked him but it didn’t last as it tends to with boys we like a bit too much.

I had some time to kill – not enough to make it home and back in the rush hour – and needed to be on call in any case and was somehow driven there. I pictured myself 15 years ago on the same street and remembered my capacity for feeling so much; love, rage. I sketched a drawing for this post while I waited, conscious that this is meant to be a reflective journal for my MA. It was of the children lying on the sofa one Sunday morning.

The day grew dark around me and the rain came down. People were making their way home from work and were turning into their houses. The windows glowed like amber eyes. Time passed and I drove away.

So much life spent in the car. In the inside outside.

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