Post by Mary Poppins on Nov 22, 2010 9:28:58 GMT -5
It was a Second Tuesday and Mary Poppins was in a dark mood. Her red shoes shone against the bleak, paltry stone in direct contrast to her current feelings. She did not feel at all distinguished today, merely alive. Not one to be prone to the melancholic, she occasionally found herself tired. Never physically, she had always had that joviality of spirit that avoided physical weariness with overtones of energy. Every now and then, however, heaviness would invade her heart; heaviness she knew all too well. It was that time again, that bittersweet taste of success. The wind was coming unstuck again and soon she would be… Her mind drifted to the faces of two young Londoners who were learning lessons rather to quickly for her taste. They would understand, but it would not make it any easier for her to continue on her way.
She stepped up the stairs of St Paul's Cathedral in search of the friend that had, so long, kept her optimism about life and humanity in tact. She searched the usual places in earnest. There was a mother emerging from daily prayer with her two children and Mary noticed the festivity of her yellow hat. There was, however, something vital missing; something she wanted to see. The Bird Woman was gone.
Mary frowned, seemingly otherwise undisturbed by the sudden change of the habitual. This was totally uncharacteristic and a small pang echoed through her. She felt something within fray slightly as she stared at the empty space. She felt a usual refuge slipping away from her fingertips as the inevitable charging train of time forged ahead. What could this mean? It was indeed a Dark Second Tuesday. She pulled her powder puff from her handbag, looking at her pale face in the small mirror. Her cheeks seemed more drawn than usual. She powdered her nose and ignored it, secretly willing colour to her cheeks. This affect was totally unlike her.
She thought she might take a seat on the stairs and wait, but quickly thought better of it. It most certainly would not do to wallow in such an emotional state, not to mention the fact that sitting so arbitrarily in so public a space might make her victim to pernicious wondering. She was certainly not keen to be wondered about; it was a terribly tasteless experience. Furthermore, it was unkind to her cheerier faculties. She forced the frown from her face and resolved to do something exciting on this unfriendly Second Tuesday.
What then, were the options?
A walk through Hyde Park? A trip to the House of Commons? Perhaps a visit to Leicester Square to take in a theatrical? She stepped carefully back down the stairs and weighed these thoughts, quickly reaching some conclusions: too dull, too frustrating and, although she would never admit it to anyone, rather too dear. She thought of Bert. He had always known what would make her day. Her mood blackened all the more, like the face of a chimney sweep just begun on the flue. She had not seen him for quite some time and had no idea whence he had disappeared. She missed him.
She quickly drew her mind back to the task at hand. What could this Second Tuesday have to offer? Other than a possibly fascinating afternoon of street haunting, it did not appear to be much. Even Uncle Albert was away on business, although on what business she could not be certain. He had been relatively idle, in her eyes, for most of their acquaintance. Any 'business’ was certainly not what the average citizen might imagine.
A companion was always preferred on such a day. They distracted from the inevitable. The only distraction that presented itself this morning had been Atticus and Mary was not about to suffer herself to his company for the duration of her day. No, she had to admit it. She felt alone, and that was unacceptable. As if in answer to this determination, a voice from behind crashed into her lonely Second Tuesday with exuberance that seemed out of place.
She stepped up the stairs of St Paul's Cathedral in search of the friend that had, so long, kept her optimism about life and humanity in tact. She searched the usual places in earnest. There was a mother emerging from daily prayer with her two children and Mary noticed the festivity of her yellow hat. There was, however, something vital missing; something she wanted to see. The Bird Woman was gone.
Mary frowned, seemingly otherwise undisturbed by the sudden change of the habitual. This was totally uncharacteristic and a small pang echoed through her. She felt something within fray slightly as she stared at the empty space. She felt a usual refuge slipping away from her fingertips as the inevitable charging train of time forged ahead. What could this mean? It was indeed a Dark Second Tuesday. She pulled her powder puff from her handbag, looking at her pale face in the small mirror. Her cheeks seemed more drawn than usual. She powdered her nose and ignored it, secretly willing colour to her cheeks. This affect was totally unlike her.
She thought she might take a seat on the stairs and wait, but quickly thought better of it. It most certainly would not do to wallow in such an emotional state, not to mention the fact that sitting so arbitrarily in so public a space might make her victim to pernicious wondering. She was certainly not keen to be wondered about; it was a terribly tasteless experience. Furthermore, it was unkind to her cheerier faculties. She forced the frown from her face and resolved to do something exciting on this unfriendly Second Tuesday.
What then, were the options?
A walk through Hyde Park? A trip to the House of Commons? Perhaps a visit to Leicester Square to take in a theatrical? She stepped carefully back down the stairs and weighed these thoughts, quickly reaching some conclusions: too dull, too frustrating and, although she would never admit it to anyone, rather too dear. She thought of Bert. He had always known what would make her day. Her mood blackened all the more, like the face of a chimney sweep just begun on the flue. She had not seen him for quite some time and had no idea whence he had disappeared. She missed him.
She quickly drew her mind back to the task at hand. What could this Second Tuesday have to offer? Other than a possibly fascinating afternoon of street haunting, it did not appear to be much. Even Uncle Albert was away on business, although on what business she could not be certain. He had been relatively idle, in her eyes, for most of their acquaintance. Any 'business’ was certainly not what the average citizen might imagine.
A companion was always preferred on such a day. They distracted from the inevitable. The only distraction that presented itself this morning had been Atticus and Mary was not about to suffer herself to his company for the duration of her day. No, she had to admit it. She felt alone, and that was unacceptable. As if in answer to this determination, a voice from behind crashed into her lonely Second Tuesday with exuberance that seemed out of place.
