Almost Certainly
I feel a little wrong writing this just after Humpty's post below, which probably raises a good point, but it's Sunday and I'm a little bit hungover and I haven't got anything better to do than relate what is my only story that fits this QOTW, having lead a fairly sheltered existence up till this point.

Allow me first to give you a bit of background. Without it, let's be honest, there really isn't much to this tale.

Most evenings, I get the train back from college. It's rarely that I can't find at least one person I know reasonably well on the train, so this is usually accompanied by a brief chat about whatever takes our fancy as the landscape outside turns slowly from vaguely industrial to the kind of civilized bucolic you get on the South coast.It doesn't take long before we arrive at my stop, on the edge of a small town. I disembark, sometimes accompanied by whoever I was just talking to, should it be that this is also their stop. To be honest, though, even when I really like the person in question, I'm a little resentful of this. The twelve minutes of walk between the station and my house should be sacrosanct. As pleasant as talking to this person might be, I much prefer to spend the time in quiet reflection.

I do really, really love this walk. When not forced to banter with someone, I adopt a stony expression so no passer-by might see fit to try and disturb me in any way, but inside I'm grinning like a wanking chimp. I walk towards a big board covered in some kind of climbing plant that puts out the most beautiful white flowers, cross the road and head down a pavement next to quite a busy road. After about 100 metres, I turn off, and this is where it really gets good.

The road is entirely residential and eventually ends in a cul-de-sac, so only once in a blue moon does a car ever go down there. When no one's looking, I walk in the middle of the road, which is an incredibly liberating experience, only remounting the pavement when someone hones into view on the horizon. I'm still too self-conscious, it seems, to not care about some stranger wandering about why I'm walking in the middle of the road.

As the seasons change, the whole character of the road follows in sympathy. At the moment, the blossom is just starting to come out, pale and fragile like the smile on someone who's just woken up and is pleased to see you. Icily beautiful as the stark bare of winter can be, it makes for a pleasant change. Then as the year rolls on, the trees that line the side of the road erupt into lush green foliage that feels almost like a foreign country, as heat haze shimmers above the gently suburban houses and, for a time, all is well with the world.

As ever, these things seldom last, and as the grass yellows and the trees rustle yawns, the austere onset of autumn is as sure and certain as the bubbling of the brook that you can hear in the fields behind the houses on the right, about half-way down, on stiller days. At this time of year, it's especially good to walk at night, as breath forms long tendrils bathed in the orange glow of the streetlights.

Nearing the end of this road, the houses on the right fall away suddenly, giving way to a huge field sloping away with oak trees at the bottom. Over the top of these, the church spire becomes visible. It is not hard to see why, at the turn of the last century, pastoral composers became obsessed with the idea of the English countryside as Eden.

Anyway, in amongst all that faintly pretentious wittering, it may be difficult for you to see where the actual point of this story is going to emerge from.

I forget exactly when it was. The weather was grey and close, but not all that warm, so I'm going to guess around Easter last year. I had got off the train, mercifully alone, and was about to commence this marvellous walk, even if I was, I think, unusually preoccupied. As I walked down the steps from the station, I became aware of an unusual commotion. My eye was drawn immediately to the wreckage of a car up on the bank on the opposite side of the road. There was only one, I recall, which I found odd considering it was hardly an accident black-spot and, it being four p.m, the driver was highly unlikely to have been blind drunk. A quick survey located the driver, on the opposite side of the road, the one I was on, being tended to by a group of paramedics. he was a good 50 feet from where his car had ended up, and, to put it mildly, in quite a bad way. I quickly averted my gaze to avoid seeing things thta might haunt me for years to come. Successfully, as it turned out: I can't remember what he looked like or the nature of any of his injuries, only that he wouldn't be walking away any time soon. I do, in fact, feel quite bad for walking on by without a second glance. Whilst there was absolutely nothing I could have done to help, I still can't quite avoid the suspicion that I should have at least offered.

Suffice to say, I didn't enjoy my walk nearly so much that day.
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Sun 2 Mar 2008, 15:49, 1 reply)

I like
"Grinning like a wanking chimp?" Christ, what an image. I laughed, though.

Very well written!
(oneltrchardonnay, Sun 2 Mar 2008, 15:54, closed)