the hummadruz

April 7, 2010

This morning, as I walked to work, spring seemed to be around (despite the grey). Something about the air changes at this time of year. It’s lighter; less against you. On Sunday, after C. and I had been to visit his parents, we walked in the countryside. C.’s parents live in the interstices between the London, Hertfordshire and the countryside. You take a bus from Cockfosters, so it’s on the tube, but just opposite their front door is a field where you can walk and walk. If you turn left at the corner of one of the fields you can walk across to the stone needle statue in the grounds of my university – so strange that C. grew up just adjacent to the place where I’ve spent so much of the last decade.

C.: “That’s the field where C. shot T.”
I look at him quizzically.
“I mean, in the video.”
“It’s nice that there are places you can walk around with a replica weapon in London and not get arrested… I suppose.”

We spoke of the year to come, the summer progressing towards us. Long afternoons lying on the grass and listening to aeroplane noises. C. suggests this is not, in fact, aeroplane noises, but the hummadruz. At first I think this is just some nonsense (I mean, ‘hummadruz’, how made up does that sound?) but further research reveals this to be a Fortean phenomenon preceding frequent air travel. Even more delightfully, there isn’t a conclusive reason for it.

I always tend to be heartened by hearing of inexplicable things. Things that resist easy schematisation seem more real somehow (and give me hope that everything isn’t just subsumed by the capitalist system). The optimism of earthquakes and the eventual heat-death of the sun.

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