A Scrap of Grass in East London

Not my boots - apart from being black, my footwear has always been decidedly un-Goth - but a sign of a modest venturing into a social world which has been impossible for a long while. A group of us gathered for a picnic in Greenwich on Saturday; I discovered I still feel quite cautious, and found myself automatically edging away from friends who might not see things the same way, though I only really felt particularly uncomfortable for a few minutes on a relatively crowded Jubilee Line. But this is only what we know, and if we didn't we should have done, that people are different.

Coming away, I realised the most pleasing thing about the picnic was having conversations, sometimes delving beneath the surface of ordinary social interactions to something more meaningful, which I could take notice of but which I wasn't expected to do anything with. It was taking an interest in people, but without being responsible for them in any way, and for me that's refreshing. I also realised how pleasant it is to have people bother to speak to oneself and that determines me to make a point of always doing so around Swanvale Halt. It's easy to see my own brief interactions with parishioners as superficial and not really achieving anything, but perhaps they do merely by the fact of happening, by making the point that the other person matters enough to speak to. I often forget that.