I am walking along a busy street.  It is an ordinary kind of day.

Very ordinary.

Can I say that? Can something be 'very' ordinary? Are there degrees or shades of ordinariness? 'Slightly ordinary' or ' More ordinary ' than usual?

OK then, so the day is just ordinary, bordering on boring.  Plain 'bog standard', and already I'm bogged down in an argument with myself before I even start my normal daily activities.

But what is normal? Is what I do normal, and is everyone else behaving abnormally?

Ah, well - back to the plot.

I try to ignore the noise of traffic and the buzz of conversation making normal conversation impossible, but can't avoid reading again all those confusing signs that I pass every day on my way to the office.

There is the 'lollipop lady' - the school crossing patrol, with a pole-mounted sign urging us to 'Stop Children'. Why must the children be stopped? Wouldn't it be better to stop the traffic and let the children cross the road safely? Or am I just too pedantic over semantics?

I have to pass the back of the Royal Theatre. It is morning and the double stage doors are open as usual, to let some air in and last night's roar of the grease-paint and the smell of the crowd out.

On the inside of one door is painted, in large white letters, 'NO SMO' and on the other, 'KING'. I remember him - a popular entertainer in British music halls half a century ago.  Was that where Nosmo King got his stage name, from a stage door, perhaps this very one?

There I go again. What is 'very' about a door? It's a very silly expression.

I am approached by a young man who appears to be in a hurry. 'Excuse me, mate. Could you tell me the time?'

'Could I tell you the time? Of course I could, were you to ask me.'  He looks puzzled and doesn't reply but I tell him the time anyway, and he breaks into a trot. He's probably late for something.

Now I am breaking into a sweat, realizing that I am also running late and walking too slowly.

The day continues in the same ordinary way. I perform my normal daily duties but at four o'clock I remember that there is one more thing I have to do and I need to get to the other end of town quickly.

As I leave the building I speak to the porter, a very ordinary fellow, but unusually helpful, usually.

'George, will you call me a taxi, please'.

George grins, and I can guess what his reply will be.

'Certainly, Guv, you're a . . .'

He hesitates, as if uncertain whether to continue, and then, 'You're a bit late again are you, as usual?'

'That's very true', I tell him.

Yes, it has been a very ordinary day, safe and predictable, and the old ennui will still be there tomorrow.

© 2002-2006 Arthur Loosley