One hour of freedom

Freedom. Just for one hour. Today, I slink down the front steps of my Work to be greeted with sunshine and warmth. The air is humid and cloying; a welcome change to the icy chills of the air con unit above my desk. I walk along the street, a quiet residential road, which is now teaming with bodies. Some bustling around with a quick pace and a place to be, others amble at a gentle speed, soaking up the sun and enjoying the welcome break. I weave along and join the amblers, closing my eyes for a brief second to feel the sun’s heat. The summer breeze ruffles my hair, most of which is already spilling out of its messy up-do.

My feet navigate their way along the path. They know where they’re going; after all I walk the same route every lunch. My feet know each bump and pothole, allowing me to keep my eyes closed a little longer, allowing the stresses of 5 minutes ago to drift away. Lunchtime is my time. I grasp this hour with both hands and relish the moment the clock hits 13:00. My pace slows, knowing that in a moment I will have reached my destination. It’s handy thing, living a few moments from work. Both a blessing and a curse. I fill the rest of my hour with making food, reading books, blogs, writing and finding scribbled to-do lists on the back of sticky notes or receipts. I carry a pen wherever I go but paper? Not so much. I like to make do with scraps I find, usually from the depths of my bag.

Before too soon, the clock’s hand creeps towards 14:00. Walking back to Work, my pace returns to its normal hasty speed, bustling past the amblers and looking on enviously. Greeted by three concrete steps and a frosty blast, I acknowledge that I am back. The doors close behind me and with it goes My Hour.