Seeing a Small Bit of the Big Picture.

I had to walk down to the post box in Bag Lane today, and on the way back I saw a boy of around fifteen walking towards me. He held his head down and looked surly, so I watched him as he approached and continued looking at him as the distance closed. He half turned his head at one point, but didn’t make eye contact. And so I continued to watch him, and at the last minute he looked sideways back at me. I said ‘hello’, whereupon he uttered two vaguely nasal sounds which defied any attempt at translation into intelligible English.

This might provide one small paragraph in a social novel of 100,000 words, and it struck me that while the big events of the day make the headlines and create the noise, the intrigue, the horror, the anger, the indignation, the fear, the hope, and even occasionally the pleasure, it’s little episodes like this that weave the multifarious threads of life’s tapestry for most of us. It’s what the god of small things trades in, and most writers do so admire the god of small things.