"No, no, you don't get it! That's completely the wrong end of the stick!"Animated conversation overhead by the solitary middle age man I approach on my walk home from Church. Hoody pulled tight over his head, he plods on, very much in his own world. I observe appropriate arm gesticulation accompanying the 'just too loud' oration of someone in their own world. Headphones? Or frustrated personal communication? I hurry past, not having the courage or audacity to turn and check. He seems not to notice, so the embarrassment would have been all mine.
I cut across the canal bridge before him and scurried on up the once ancient thoughafare towards the city centre. Three people come out of 'All Saints', a deconsecrated church, that for the last few years has been showing a three dimensional multisensory experience about the life and work of Vincent Van Gough.
"How could you not enjoy that?" A motherly looking woman with glaring eye scolds the high pony tail of the defiant young girl before her. The girl glances back with pursed lips. "Why should she", retorts an older sisterly companion. "She is still into Disney and barbie, Why should she like Van Gogh?" I saw ripped jeans and dyed pink hair, very artistic, and a flash of the same pursed lips.
In the city centre, bicycles track past, as if part of a tightly choreographed display. Large padded boxes protruded from the riders backs. I observe the delicate thread made from the many city kitchens to lazy bedrooms in scattered terraces just a cycle ride away. One quick email prompts tremendous action. From the verification of a Mastercard security code follows the vigorous swirling of vegetables in a red hot wok. Then, in stately order, diligent students from the two universities deliver and serve their slovenly counterparts, all for the price of a bowl of pottage. I wondered if this might create a perpetual virtuous cycle of consumption. Students feeding students, who then in turn call on student to bring them food.
As a approached New Walk, a group of fast moving young men walk purposefully towards me. They talk in hushed tones and I can just make out their Arabic accents. I can only conjecture what they might be discussing. Young men speaking Arabic? I wonder whether they have come from Syria? What stories would they have to tell? Their attire spoke of traveling, not the softness of the wealthy comfortable student. Do they take in their new surroundings? Are they allowed to?
The avenue of New Walk curves on a gentle gradient upwards. Here I hear what I take to be Polish. A mother and father shouldering his young son. Hopeful eyes enjoying the newness of the walk. I wonder whether they are heading towards the museum. Do they know about the museum? What would they make of it? I leave them with that thought.
Young Chinese students approach me. Stereotypically each wears a facemask. I hear laughing as one cracks a joke. Would I understand their joke? Would it be funny to me? The face masks muffle the laughter. Each is warm in a similar puffer jacket. Were they from a part of China that would make the English winter seem mild, or extreme? Did they buy their jackets together, from a uniform shop?
Half way up the Walk you pass St Stephens Scottish Presbyterian Church. I notice that the windows of the main building appear to have been left open. The building looks as if no one has been informed that lock down is over. It is devoid of people, now filled with fresh air and cobwebs.
At the back of the church is a hall. Smartly dressed African parishioners skip out of their place of worship. I guess that they were originally from Nigeria. Families of all ages, all equally finely attired. I wondered what their service has been like. I have been told that there are over one hundred churches in Leicester offering worship in as many languages. The teenagers approaching me speak in English, and are deep in discussion. English but with musical Nigerian voices. I can't make it out. Are they talking about the sermon? A soap opera on telly? The performance of one of Leicester City's talented Nigerian players during yesterday's match? Who knows.
I fumble in my pocket to find paper and a pen. I want to recall these conversations. They are the stories of New Walk. But I don't have any paper, and nothing to write with.
My stride is in step now with a dog walker heading towards Victoria Park. I hear him encourage his dog.
"Yes, Yes that's right. You've got the right end of the stick!"
