Missing the Mundane

Michael Ritchie
19 min readMar 10, 2021

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Airport
Checking my passport is in my bag for the hundredth time. Staring at the departure board, waiting for my gate to be announced, even though it says it won’t be revealed for another twenty minutes but I can’t possibly sit somewhere I can’t see it. Terrified of missing a flight. Terrified someone will suddenly decide I can’t fly because I’ve accidentally packed a bomb. Checking my boarding pass is in my bag. Checking my passport. Wandering around WHSmiths, looking at discount paperbacks. Wondering who needs to buy luggage at this point. Looking at everyone’s feet because everyone is wearing new shoes at the airport. Creating stories in my head about my fellow fliers. The vodka and orange juice I had with breakfast, even though it’s not even eight o’clock yet, sitting uncomfortably in my stomach. Checking my passport. Finally getting a departure gate. Obviously the one furthest away from where I’m currently standing. Checking my passport and boarding pass. Trundling off towards the gate, case rumbling behind me, wheel occasionally going the wrong direction for no good reason.

Bookshop
The clichéd smell, the randomised riot of colour on the shelves, the people milling about looking for a book based solely on the fact they think the cover is blue. Passing through the new hardbacks, the tables of short story anthologies, upstairs to fiction. Having no particular title or author in mind, so heading to a shelf at random. Running my fingers against the spines as each book hopes to be picked. So many stories and worlds waiting for me to escape into them. Recognising a title from a conversation I heard. Reading the blurb. Checking the size of the font. Reading the first line. Unconvinced. Putting it back. Looking at another, clutching it, knowing it’s coming home with me. Casting an eye over authors I know well; in case I’ve missed a new title. Looking in the genre fiction sections. Cursory glance at the Agatha Christie covers. Picking up another, falling in love with the blurb, taking the two to the till, knowing I don’t need either of them but needing books has never been what buying books is about.

Cathedral
Claiming atheism most of the time, but moving slightly to the other side of agnosticism when stepping into the huge, echoey chamber. Light catching in the blues, yellows and reds of stained-glass windows, depicting people and stories that should be known. A revered silence, that smell of something historic. Shouldering the weight of history and faith, as if tasked with keeping up the steeple and beautiful ceiling single-handedly. Chiselled grave markers, acknowledging figures great and good, fine and forgotten, lost and lamentable. Religion may have its problems, but architecture isn’t one of them. A hushed whisper from a tourist. Lighting a candle, thinking of people no longer here. Statuary with stories to tell, if only they could part their stony lips and share all they’ve seen. A peace, stillness and beauty that never diminishes. A moment of calm in an uncertain world.

Dancing
Not really wanting to go into the club, but going anyway because it’s a birthday and, although bed seems a more worthy prospect at this age, not wanting to disappoint. Music drowning out any possibility of conversation immediately. Using primitive sign language to direct each another to one of the dancefloors downstairs. Shoes sinking slightly into the damp carpet, wondering who thought carpet in a nightclub was a sensible idea. Unable to shake the thought of years of vomit and sweat embedded in the fabric. Finding a bar, paying far too much for a bottle of beer because drinking wine in a club feels wrong. Downing it while trying to find friends again. Finding them already in the throng of dancers. Lubricated by the beer and earlier wine, letting the thud-thud-thud of the music permeate and letting go. Jumping, dancing, waving arms, acting as if no one is watching because absolutely no one is. Bumping into friends and strangers, starting to laugh, sweat already dampening my back. Realising it’s not actually as bad as all that.

Edinburgh
Descending steps and crossing from Old Town to New Town via the spacious, gaping concourse of Waverley station. The smell of hot train engines. Weaving up through narrow, step-laden streets, bursting out onto the Royal Mile. The weather mild, quite warm, still clutching a tartan umbrella just in case. Fringe season long passed, buskers under less pressure to be noticed. The caterwauling whine of bagpipes from somewhere. Tourists skittering about, getting in the way of the people who live here. The castle, dominating the skyline, casting its ancient eye over the city. Brownstone, cobbles and the hint of a ghost, just out of sight. Wonder and magic, a city of history welcoming everyone in, sharing friendly words, offering up a battered Mars bar which I decline once again. The thrill of being in a city I don’t live in, but feel some sense of ownership of. Light-shouldered, no responsibilities, smiling at nothing in particular.

Friends
Sitting around a table in a dining room of a house nicer than my own, friends on either side, empty plates and half-empty wine glasses in front of us. A sense of contentment; the smell of hot wax pooling beneath the shrinking candles. An inane discussion, red wine staining our lips and teeth, of an event that happened ten, fifteen years ago. A story that has been told a hundred times, but still makes us laugh uproariously, then think fondly of the person at the centre of it who we haven’t seen in the best part of a decade. What happened to her, we muse, then move on to something else. Discussing something we heard on a podcast, saw on television, read in a book. Laughing again. Topping up the wine, and then asking the host if there’s anymore. She thinks there’s another one in the cupboard, but it might need some ice. Excusing myself to go to the kitchen to hunt down more Sauvignon Blanc, smiling to myself at simple moments. The lingering smell of dinner over the oven; pans waiting to be washed up.

Gallery (Gift Shop)
Rows of books on colour theory; post-modernism; art in the Weimar Republic; biographies of Gaugin, Delaroche, Kahlo. Racks of postcards showing paintings that aren’t even in the gallery, or sculptures that are actually in Italy. Fridge magnets of varying shapes and sizes, reducing the works of Van Gogh, O’Keeffe, Turner and Caravaggio to mere tchotchkes. Children’s books and art supplies; ready to encourage a raft of nieces and nephews to become master painters. Men in round glasses and thin scarves holding court, ignoring the glazed stares of their female companions, explaining why Rothko is a genius. Timid art students in vivid greens, blues, yellows and pinks, running their fingers over beautifully packaged colouring pencils and watercolours. Trays of erasers, pencils, keyrings and notepads made of recycled material, all emblazoned with the name of the gallery. Zipping up my jacket to go outside. Itchy feet knowing that the gift shop comes last and, as a treat for being cultural and pretending to understand art, a drink at the nearest pub awaits.

Hotel
Waking up in that soulless, scentless room that looks identical to a million others around the world. The same print on the wall; identical thin carpet; same air conditioning system I never fully get to grips with so it’s always a tiny bit too cold. Stumbling to the identikit bathroom, catching sight of my barely-awake self in the huge mirror. Showering, dressing (clothes picked from a half-unpacked suitcase), descending in a silent lift to the restaurant. Quiet, polite munching and chattering of other guests. Grinning assistant, eagerly helpful. Bacon that has been slightly undercooked; eggs that have been sat under the warming light slightly too long; plastic tubs of jam that are slightly too small for my slightly too soft toast, even though the slices have been round on the conveyor belt twice; two miniature glasses of orange juice; a second helping of food; a yoghurt, even though I never eat yoghurt for breakfast at home. Grabbing an apple for later, but knowing I’ll get back to the hotel in the evening and it will still be in my bag, slightly bruised.

Ice Cream
Lips still salty from the hot chips that were eyed up by the gathering seagulls, always bigger and meaner close up than one remembers. The crisp breeze coming in off the waves, not unpleasant, a nice summer wind that requires no sleeves. Staring at the large board on the window of the ice cream van, a kaleidoscope of colours advertising a range of ice lollies in all shapes and sizes. Calippo, Magnum, Zoom, Fab, Feast. Internally processing the thought that they all seem so much more expensive than they used to, and knowing that that makes me old. Plumping for a classic 99 anyway. That first taste of cold ice cream. Biting the top off the flake, feeling the chocolate shards drop onto my shirt. Brushing them away and licking at the ice cream, desperately trying to stop it dripping down onto my hand, while trying to find a spot on the beach away from the noisiest children.

Journey
Foot against the accelerator, the other lingering near the clutch out of habit. Tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel, matching the tempo of track seven on the CD, on its third go round. Trying to find something different on the radio, but just encountering interminable phone ins and songs by artists we’ve never heard of. Sucking a hard-boiled sweet, my mouth filled with lemon-laced saliva. You pointing out another dog, this time a border collie, peering cautiously over the back seat of a Nissan. Indicating, checking the mirror, changing into another lane, flicking the indicator off. An enormous road sign indicating forty-six miles to go. You skipping track eight. Tepid water in plastic bottles by your feet. My neck sore from sitting so erect for so long. Promising we’ll stop at the next services for a pee and some McDonalds fries. Going somewhere.

Kitchen
Leaning against the sink, discussing a podcast with an acquaintance I only see at house parties, but get on really well with, and actually have the phone number of, but to call them and arrange a drink would be somehow inappropriate. Laughing about the same three things we always laugh at. The sound of the party coming loudly from the rest of the house, music thumping and laughter piercing through it. Topping up our glasses with a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc that neither of us bought. Empty bottles a forest of green on the table. Bowls of crisps, politely laid out for anyone who needs to soak up some booze. The lingering smell of pizza; burnt cheese. Watching a drunk man with fashionable hair, swaying a little, rearranging the magnetic letters on the fridge to spell something you wouldn’t show the vicar. Another friend appearing for a side hug, topping up her gin and tonic with far more gin than tonic, then disappearing back to the throng. Feeling like I should go to the toilet, but enjoying the chat too much. The sense that life should always be like this, but it won’t be and can’t be.

Library
Comforting warmth, surrounded by literary friends, huge tomes, great fiction, almanacs and books of lists and information on creaking shelves. Settling into a chair at an empty table, turning on the laptop, hoping I remembered to put it on mute before I last turned it off. Praying that the surroundings of leather-bound books and the quietest quiet ever manufactured is enough to inspire the words to flow. People watching. Students writing essays. People uncovering their family tree. Novelists striving to confirm through their research what life was actually like in 1904, or the specifics of a particular cannon, or the breeding patterns of mute swans. An old man in thick glasses reading a broadsheet. A young woman, screensaver on showing a snowscape, engrossed in the book in front of her, hunched over, absorbing. Putting my fingers to the keyboard and letting them do their work.

Museum
Stories of figures, events and entire civilisations reduced to black, sans-serif font on a white background next to a glass case of rusty, dulled fragments. Undoing my coat, feeling a little too warm. Drinking in every sign. Peering at objects of priceless value, feeling history breathing back on the other side of the glass. Wondering and never knowing whose hand held that sword, whose mouth drank from that goblet, whose fingers painted that plate, who carved that figurine, the mystery of never being able to know what any of them were thinking. Unappreciative children laughing at nudity in the work of a great master. Tutting, then sniggering anyway, because nudity is still funny somehow. Knowing that there’s a lot of bad blood around the world based on who owns everything here, but still admiring that humanity cared enough to keep it. Museums being our time capsules, our encyclopaedias writ large, our very human tendency to care, to express intelligence, to educate, to find beauty and greatness in little things.

Night Bus
Climbing the stairs as the bus jerks away from the stop, catching me unawares even though, really, I knew it was going to happen as it always does. Hauling myself to the top deck, wine sloshing in my stomach. Making my way down the narrow aisle to an empty pair of seats. Leaning my head against the window only for it to rattle my skull and clatter my teeth together, quite unlike the romantic leads in films who seem to all ride buses that are as streamlined as marlins and run on roads devoid of potholes. The windows are closed and soaked in condensation, obscuring the view. Wiping away some of the water, wiping my wet hand on my coat, looking through the drips at a pixelated street, orange and white lights. A group of three younger lads towards the back of the bus, quite loud but harmless. Students; a bit drunk. A man a few seats in front of me with long dreadlocks; tapping his foot in the aisle to a rhythm only he can hear. Up front, two girls sitting in silence, an open bag of chips between them, the smell of vinegar making my mouth water. Wondering if I’ll manage to stay awake for my stop.

Office
The hum of the printer, the smell of warm paper and ink. The occasional burst of light from the photocopier. Staring out of the window, seeing tops of trees and higher buildings behind them. Trying to focus on the document on the computer screen. Counting down the minutes until I can justify a lunch break. Tapping at the keyboard. Checking Twitter. Checking my inbox. Three new messages in the last hour. Replying to two of them. Back to the document. Colleague to my left asking about something that was on television last night, but awkwardly having to say I didn’t see it. A birthday card deposited on my desk for someone in another department I’ve never spoken to. Trying to think of something interesting to write. The gurgle of the water cooler. Eating another custard cream. Wondering if something truly interesting has ever happened in an office.

Pub
Entering to find it more crowded than I expected, although should have known from the groups of men already stood about outside. The immediate submersion into the loud laughter; the R&B music on a hidden speaker; the football on, a two-nil score but few people paying much attention. Finding my friend at the bar, both looking apologetic as if we’re to blame for the noise, asking if the other wants to go somewhere else, agreeing that everywhere else will be the same. Ordering a glass of wine and a beer; dropping my debit card on the damp, sticky surface of the bar before tapping it against the machine. The beep lost in the noise. Trying to hold a conversation while also checking for a table. Half a drink down, seeing a couple leave one and pouncing on it, despite the fact it’s got empty peanut packets and dirty glasses on it. Perched on wonky stools; a little too close to the back door, so every time someone comes in or goes out for a smoke there’s a sharp burst of chilled air. The scent of cigarette smoke, and melon e-cigarettes. Leaving my coat on to counteract the draught, even though I’m sweating. Another drink?

Quiz
A different pub, a different night, a different vibe. Answer sheets spread out before me; nominated the scribe because I’ve got the neatest handwriting even after three glasses of wine. Still puzzling over the picture round and wondering if it’s Sean Connery or Julia Roberts. A hush; a question; now an intellectual tussle over the chemical symbol for Platinum. Pl or Pt? Pt? If you’re sure, then. I’ll buy the next round if I’m wrong. What is the largest land carnivore? Polar bear, easy. The communal groan of disappointment when a sports round is announced. Three bags of crisps, ripped open and spread out between us. Reaching for the cheese and onion. Sipping the wine; not half bad, considering the price. Knowing we’ve cracked the music round. Who won the most recent Tour de France? No idea. These are too hard. Who’s the most decorated Olympian of all time? Michael Phelps. These are too easy. Not wanting to win anyway, because the prize is only a round of drinks at the bar and at this rate it won’t finish until 10.45.

Restaurant
Arriving first, awkwardly, asking for a table for four even though currently alone. Four menus presented and put down on the table. Already knowing everything on the menu because the website contained a scan. Having decided on a first choice, and a second in case it’s not available. Wondering whether to get a side of chips. Looking at the menu anyway, for show. Ordering water, tap, the waiter looking a bit sniffy. Explaining that my friends will be here soon, in case he’s judging. Momentarily dreading this is the wrong place. Sending a message to say I’m here, adding in a breezy, “No rush!”. Being told they’re five minutes away and to get a bottle of wine. Picking the third-cheapest bottle of wine, because the second-cheapest is always marked up too high because that’s the one people go for. Idly arranging the cutlery so it’s perfectly perpendicular. Hoping they see me when they come in because I’m not really sat in the eyeline of the entrance. The smell of cooked chicken and beef passing on hot plates. Hearing them arrive, the kissing of cheeks, apologies for lateness, slinging coats over chairs as the wine arrives. Pouring, clinking glasses, beginning the night.

Swimming
The overpowering smell of chlorine. Dropping my rainbow-striped towel onto an empty chair and feeling that moment of self-doubt for a split second, convinced everyone is watching the skinny-limbed, pot-bellied guy with the scruffy facial hair on the side of the pool, then realising that everyone is too busy breast-stroking, butterflying or jacuzziing to notice. Sitting on the edge of the pool, and sliding in, immediately sinking my shoulders beneath the water to feel the shock of the cold, letting my body acclimatise as quickly as possible before setting out on one quick, exploratory length of the pool. That counts. Fifty-nine more and I can go in the jacuzzi, the reward for doing something physical. The childhood memory of swimming lessons, kicking fiercely with a float clutched between my small hands; a float that looked like someone had been biting lumps out of it. Six more lengths, then deciding that sixty is too many and fifty will be fine. Untangling a plot thread in the novel I’m writing while I swim. Doing half a length butterfly, then giving up because I’m not very good at it and hoping no one noticed I tried. Three more lengths. Forty will be enough, actually. Doing two lengths on my back, but too paranoid about hitting my head to enjoy it; trying to guess where the end of the pool is from where the light fixtures are. Another length. Thirty will do it. Looking underwater and noticing a corn plaster floating near the drain, along with a small pile of sand for some reason. Finishing my twenty-seventh length, and going in the jacuzzi anyway because it was empty and I didn’t want to miss my turn.

Theatre
Milling around in the foyer, coat slung over my arm, conversation suddenly stilted and awkward with someone I’ve known for years now that we’re clutching warm Pinot Grigio in a plastic glass and a four-quid programme I will keep on my lap throughout so I can check what I saw everyone in as they come on stage. Wondering if they were in Casualty or The Bill or, as is so often the case, both. People-watching avidly, both of us, looking at those who come all the time and have dressed appropriately. Seeing those who are new to the theatre, looking around nervously, some too underdressed, others over-dressed because they believe the theatre isn’t for “the likes of them” and they don’t really know what they’re doing there. The smell of freshly-hoovered carpets and the slight whiff of drying rain from people’s jackets. Deciding to find our seats. The tear of the tickets. Asking the three people already sat at the end of the row to stand up so we can get in, apologising at least six times. One of them looking cross, clutching a bag of Maltesers close to her chest in case they go missing as we pass. Sitting down, deciding that they aren’t bad seats, but remaining fearful someone tall will sit in front. The lights going down. The orchestra striking up. A shiver of magic.

Underground
Minding the gap. Immediately feeling too warm, as I look hopelessly for a seat, but it’s just at that level where every seat is taken so standing is the only option. Nearly falling over as the train jerks away from the station because I was undoing my jacket. Grasping the pole, aware of the hundreds of hands that have grabbed it before my own. Train loud, thundering like a storm in my head, drowning out the sound of my podcast. Slowing, stopping in the next station. No one getting on, a few people getting off. Leaping to an empty seat between a tired-looking businessman in bright pink socks and a woman playing Candy Crush, a bright yellow Selfridges bag between her high heels. Falling in love with someone reading across the aisle. Falling out of love nine seconds later upon realising they’re reading Ayn Rand. Obsessively checking the map opposite, even though I’ve taken this journey dozens of times. Reading the same adverts for hair transplants, multivitamins and credit cards. Wondering if it would have been quicker to walk.

Vineyard
Knowing this isn’t really where I belong. Worried if I’ve dressed properly (boots suitable for walking in the country, blazer suitable for a nice bar) and wondering if people think I look like I don’t belong. Fine-tuning my accent just a notch to make me sound more like I’m in the right place. Nodding wisely at the tour guide. Admiring the rows upon rows of vines, wondering how much wine there is, waiting. Wondering when the tasting begins. Remembering not to get drunk and accidentally buy anything, having already checked the website and knowing it’s not in the budget. Waving away the spittoon. Feeling a tiny bit jealous when the tweed-wearing couple from Surrey buy a case of the Riesling.

Wedding
The promises made, the photos done, standing outside on a baking hot day, wishing I didn’t have to wear a suit, quaffing free champagne and chatting awkwardly with people I’ve known twenty years because wearing a suit puts one in a different frame of mind, and we’ve all just witnessed something momentous. Silently comparing the décor, dress, food and location to the weddings from last summer. Checking my watch. Seeing someone across the lawn I haven’t seen in four years, pretending our eyes didn’t meet. Knowing a few drinks later we’ll be on the dance floor and all awkwardness will have vanished. Hoping I still remember the moves to “Saturday Night”. Gushing at small children in bow ties and shiny sandals. Checking my phone out of force of habit, even though almost everyone who might have messaged me is here. The sense of coming together, outpourings of love, scent of fresh flowers and strawberries. The announcement of the wedding breakfast. Eternal disappointment it isn’t bacon and eggs.

X
A day off from work with no obligations ahead of me. No obligations, but plenty of options. Thinking about going shopping, or to the cinema, or driving down to the beach for a walk along the seafront, even though the sky looks a bit menacing, or going to the café down the road to sit with my laptop and do a little bit of writing somewhere different, or texting my friend and asking if he’s around for an afternoon drink. Deciding to do nothing; putting on a film I’ve seen before; curling up on the sofa with a murder mystery novel; eating thickly buttered toast in the middle of the afternoon because the rules are out the window of when I need to eat. Staying in, because I want to, not because I have to.

You
Waking up and feeling across the bed for you, skin touching skin and enveloping you in a morning hug. Muttered greetings, trivial questions of how you slept, heads heavy with dreams and wine. Moving into a new position, spooning, kissing your shoulder and the nape of your neck. Peppering dozy kisses in your curls. You squeezing my hands, dozing together, locked together. A brief recounting of an already-fading dream. Wondering who will get up first, but not wanting to. Flipping the pillow to the cold side. Content. Happy. Comfortable. Close.

Zoo
Navigating around three small children, screeching, parents looked harassed, trying to placate them with a promise of seeing the penguins. Making my way to the penguin pool before they turn up to pierce the quiet. Comical little waiters waddling about the rocks, diving into the clear green water and displaying their true grace. An unhurried wander, past the reptile house, across to the llama paddock. Unimpressed llamas, chewing the cud and staring me down. Reading the large noticeboard about the biology of the llama. A tannoyed voice announcing a parrot show in half an hour. The underlying smell of animal shit and straw. Tiny sense of guilt because knowing, really, animals shouldn’t be in zoos. Nonetheless, still grateful to be able to see giraffes (so tall), gorillas (so intelligent) and crocodiles (so prehistoric) in person. Overpaying for a hot dog. Wondering whether to buy a fridge magnet or a key ring in the gift shop later.

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Michael Ritchie
Michael Ritchie

Written by Michael Ritchie

Writer, reader, quizzer, drunk.

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