Avoiding Marathons

Derek and I spent Sunday morning hiding on the boat because a) it was bloody roasting and b) there was a half marathon happening at the bottom of the road and neither of us wanted to accidentally end up running it. Once, when Tilly was very tiny and we still lived in London, we decided to take her to the Sea Life Centre on the South Bank. It was a lovely idea except that we picked the day of the London Marathon and got trapped on a traffic island near Parliament Square for about forty minutes while thousands of people ran by. We would have turned back except that we were locked in on all sides, plus we had a toddler screaming blue murder because we promised fish. Pointing at a delirious man from Hartlepool dressed as a dinosaur, marinading in his own sweat is no substitute for a shark. I’ve been traumatised by marathons ever since and I didn’t love them to begin with. Too many cross country runs with sadistic PE teachers.

I had work to be getting on with, so I chipped away at hard thinking. I know I was thinking hard because I had to keep getting up and having a snack. I find exercising my brain out of the normal grooves extremely draining these days. I’m reading Daniel Kahneman’s, Thinking Fast and Slow at the moment and I’ve just finished a chapter where he talks about the slow thinking brain taking more energy to process than the quick thinking brain. I think 95% of my brain is slow thinking and that would both explain and legitimise the biscuits.

When I’d reached the diabetic threshold and all the runners had gone, I went out for a walk. I headed towards Trinity Buoy Wharf, past the Majestic Wine warehouse, which is a tall, Victorian building perched at the edge of the huge traffic island you filter off to get to the marina. It’s a great landmark because it’s so tall, you can see it from far enough down the A road approach that you have time to get into the right lane and not get killed and it means you know you are at the right, huge traffic island. I find it very comforting. It says it’s open to the public, but I have never seen a single soul go in or out. I wonder if it’s a secret ops building for MI6, although why they’d want to spy on a roundabout and a Radisson that thinks its all that but really isn’t because it’s next to a huge recycling centre I don’t know, but that’s probably why I’m not a spy.

The road has a thick hedge on one side, which is a baffle for the many lanes of traffic zipping by. At certain points people have tried to access it for various purposes. There are a lot of gas canister boxes. Apparently kids are no longer satisfied with the tiny ampoules of gas and have now taken to huffing massive things that look like fire extinguishers. Why they’d want to do that in a huge snarl of brambles at the side of the A12 is anyone’s guess. Why does substance abuse have to be so grimy and industrial? I think even Danny Boyle would be hard pushed to make a compelling film about teenagers banging away on Soda Stream canisters surrounded by dog shit and half ripe blackberries while a series of Eddie Stobart lorries thunder by in the background.

Further up, someone has attempted a bit of guerrilla gardening and been overcome by the ferocity of the wilderness. A half hearted attempt at growing some kind of squash has been severely impeded by the relentless march of buddleja and brambles. On the other side of the road is a telecoms warehouse with a sign outside. Apparently there is a historically important bit of dock underneath this charmless pile of corrugated iron. There are photos of it before they built on top of it. I really hope there is a hatch in the call centre floor where people can climb down and wander about in the gloom with a head torch.

By the time I hit the river, the tide was far, far out and the mud flats glistened for days. The smell of wet, salty mud was delicious. It took me back to being extremely small, although to no specific time and place. I stood against the railings and took so many deep breaths I had to have a sit down. I expected to see the salt flats teeming with bird life as I turned the corner, but they were virtually empty. I think it was just too hot. They were probably hiding in a hedge with the teenagers. Imagine a heron on laughing gas.

I sat on a pile of sleepers at the wharf, watching the sun scintillating on the water and enjoying another good smell, old wood and creosote, tar and sunshine. It was a day for sniffing, clearly.

When I’d had my fill I looped back to follow the river Lea from where it empties into the Thames back towards Canning Town. I discovered a small enclave on the inner loop of the river where the English National Ballet have their practice space. There’s a cluster of interesting looking bars and restaurants and a very shiny sculpture of some enormous ballet shoes to marvel at. I walked on past a boba tea shop that sold bubble tea with ‘cheese foam’ topping. The thought made my stomach flip. I hate bubble tea anyway. I don’t understand why people enjoy drinking things that clog up your straw and taste like exploding frogspawn in your mouth. The addition of cheese foam is the final insult.

I crossed the river into Canning Town proper and found a place called Caxton Works which is setting itself up to be the next Shoreditch. Given that it was surrounded by a dual carriage way, some semi-derelict flats and more than a few pubs that no self-respecting non murderer would set foot in, it has a fair way to go, but I admire its ambition. There was a very cool bar replete with guys doing complicated things with Technics decks and some ambient sounds. There was an interesting looking ice cream place that bears a revisit and a climbing centre full of sweaty teenagers and a disinterested looking attendant hosing things down on a tarpaulin. He looked like he hated climbing, teenagers and life.

I walked down to Royal Victoria docks which was too noisy by half and hopped a train home, seeking refuge on a cool boat with a cool cat.