The Middle Day
First published 'Twelfth Issue' 1992

If I could explain what happened to me that day, I wouldn’t be here now with so much time on my hands to scribble this out. If, indeed, I could explain the DAY itself, nestling as it seemed between Monday and Tuesday, I’d be a normal man - or a MORE normal man, able to return to his 9 to 5 office job, perhaps only to scribble out even greater nonsense than this I scribble now.

I was in North London for a business meeting, one of the few that I’m now asked to attend (whilst a few years ago there were many more, all over England - but for some reason, there’s not so much call these days for me to make visits outside the office). Being early (as was my wont) and not knowing the area at all well, I decided to rest my weary bones in Highgate Wood quite close to the venue of the meeting.

This wood turned out to be a delightful green oasis of towering trees and twittering birds in the midst of relentless roads and gaping undergrounds. As I settled down upon a bench , I could still hear the traffic on Muswell Hill Road; it was like some outraged (or outrageous) God muttering at my escape from his jurisdiction.

The day was Monday. I’m SURE the day was Monday ... except, an hour later after I had emerged from the secret garden (for that is how my mind had idealised this retreat) and had arrived precisely on time for the meeting (as I always prided myself on doing), I was informed by an officious receptionist that I had missed the meeting by one whole day!



Once upon a time, there was a wood in the middle of a city which, for a specific day each year, had a sabbatical from time.

It was necessary for it to have this Awayday, since life in the city was otherwise unbearable. Therefore, God allowed it an annual oasis of non-existence, where not even trees nor birds could disturb it, let alone His own self-confessed grumbling attentions to its natual processes.

Unlike death, which is probably the longest holiday of all, this day-break into nothingness could spruce up the trees and woodland paths, harmonise the birdsong and remove the litter which the local council had missed.

Death, on the other hand, being the mother and father of a day off, serves very little purpose in itself. It only encourages those who believe in reincarnation to come out of the woodshed and prance about naked.



Which is why, I suppose, they put me away here. It wasn’t because I was 24 hours late for the meeting, nor even for my shouts of “Blessed Be The Traffic And Its Wardens” - but the fact that I didn’t have a stitch on ... even my wristwatch had disappeared (and my nails!).

I hope they bring me some more paper later, since I haven’t really finished. Enough room, after this, to scribble a date for future reference, in case I get confused about days again. (All I can do is look forward to a sabbatical from madness, I suppose.)