New life
Stairs and stares
Zenga Longmore
There are times when I tell myself I can take Worthing or leave it alone. I have even been known not to think about the town for hours on end. But then Worth- ing's magnetic allure pulls at my soul, and, like a woman possessed, I blindly bundle Omalara up in something woolly, and hot-foot it down to that magical seaside town.
The latest Worthing impulse hit me last Thursday when the lifts broke down in my tower block. As luck would have it, they decided to blow the whistle on the day I was laden down with three shopping bags, a pushchair, and a two-stone Omalara. With every step I climbed, I heaped fresh curses on Lambeth's lift engineers. By now they all should be plagued with frogs, boils and locusts, and all their camels should have fleas.
By the time we reached the tenth floor, I had developed that — how can I put it? that Worthing feeling. That certain sensa- tion you get from time to time when you tell yourself, 'Away with Brixton, bring on the Worthing'.
To clatter back down the ten flights of stairs and jump into a Victoria-bound bus was for me the work of a moment. Olum- ba, who usually restrains me at times such as these with the words, 'Curb that crave for bush', was away, so there was no holding me back.
Omalara alarmed me for the length of the train journey by stuffing everything she could find into her mouth with lightning speed. As fast as I could take out some- one's crusty old handkerchief, a cigarette butt had gone in.
To distract her mind, a kindly old lady sitting next to us tried her hand at `coochie- cooing' her.
`Who's a boochie woochie den, eh? Hizza wizza wozzie woo.'
Omalara, an ancient matchstick poised at her lips, raised her eyebrows and stared coldly at the woman. The more the lady tried to amuse, the icier became Omalara's registration of disapproval until the woman curled with discomfort.
There and then I decided that, next to realising you've forgotten your purse when the Sainsbury's cashier has just rung up Your shopping, the most embarrassing thing one can do is to `coochie-coo' a baby Who merely gives one a steely Victorian glare. . .
Fortunately the tense situation came to an abrupt end an hour and a half later When the train pulled into our destination.
All this talk of Worthing may have misled you. For the place where we even- tually found ourselves was the little village of my birth, which lies somewhere between Worthing and Littlehampton. It was interesting to note that the villa- gers who, ten years ago, had hacked all their trees down to make way for crazy paving, are now sporting 'Save the Trees. Protect Our Environment' signs in their windows. But it is precisely this wild, madcap Sussex logic which draws me back again and again. Ah, village life! Besides, I need to revitalise my system with fresh country air every now and then to build up the strength to face those stairs.
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