Creative Writing Journey

My name is Jon and I am a creative writer.
I feel better having got that off my chest. Seriously though, I write, poetry, short stories, biographical stories and blogs etc. When I heard Parkinson’s UK wanted to support creative writing amongst those with Parkinson’s I asked to be involved. They held a meeting about providing an online resource to support creative writing and I was lucky enough to be asked to attend and give my input.  I think it is an incredible idea I have never heard of a charity doing something quite like this. Yet health is linked to wellbeing so it makes absolute sense.

What I won’t do here is release the details of that meeting. It would be wrong to provide my interpretation before oficial notes are available. What I am going to do is discribe my creative writing journey(I do mean the journey). My writing is aided by the attention I pay to other peoples behaviour and noticing my surroundings. Any insight I gain into behaviour or knowledge I can use in my writing expands my capabilities. I also believe you enjoy life more if you pay attention.

As usual the train was late, held up by a large fire at a tyre recycling company in St Erth. I didn’t mind too much I had no deadline for getting to London and had no changes of train.The seat reservations were not marked and there was friction between those who took two different approaches.Some wanted to have the seats they expected to be reserved whilst others accepted the loss of reservations and sat anywhere. Anger at losing seat reservations combined with worry over connections and some people were quite wound up. It was a quite uneventful journey and I combined periods of reading with dozing until we arrived.


Arrival in London brought the full range of Englsh manners from the pleasantly  polite “after you” of the couple who waited while I got out of my seat, to the imperious glare of someone who knew I and every one else was getting in his way.I gently weaved my way through the unco-ordinated crowd. Ants scurrying without the advantage of a common purpose. I headed for Victoria on the Underground as I had time to walk from there to the location of the next days meeting and on to my hotel so I could check my route for the morning. As I left the tubestation the flurrying scurrying crowd left with me spreading across roads outside with no patience to wait for the readiness of the crossing  systems.If aliens ever arrive here our inbred disregard for awaiting the little green man may be crucial. If they share our propensity for road rage ther could be war.

I ambled up Vauxhall Bridge Road past the Parkinson’s UK Office.leaving the crowds behind. I walked  about a mile to Vauxhall Bridge gazingat the greenish windows on buildings at Imperial Wharf their Eastern Aspect reminding me of the cosmopolitan nature of the city.Starting to wish I had my camera as I walk alongside the river with pockets of serenity between the sections where I meet joggers and cyclistsmost at one with their mobile. I stop and watch a tour bus emerge from the river an amphibian vehicle known as a Dukw before my eye focuses on the procession of red beetles in the distance on Lambeth Bridge. The bridge seems to operate a one on one off policy for red buses as everytime I glance that way there are eight on the bridge.

I step around the corner and am confronted by the sight of a full meringue itsivory colour matched by the smile on the bridegrooms face.Although perhaps more the knowing grin of someone so close to his wedding night. The first of two newlywed couples I pass with their photographer.  After passing Lambeth Bridge the walk beomes quiet again. In the distance I spy the London  Eyr and then Westminster Palace before the sight of Big Ben reminds me it is dinner time.

At the end of my walk I book in to the hotel and head towards the restaurent. As I wait for my meal a family is seated just over my left shoulder and the man is displaying dyskinesias. I  can’t help but look several times assessing whether he has Parkinson’s. I am not sure if I have been staring so after my meal. I say hello and he is delighted. I have never done that before but I meet a friendly welcoming man whose wife says she had spotted my Parkinson’s. A nice family and even in a city full of strangers it is possible to find a friend. The meeting is the following day but already the trip feels worthwhile.

After arriving home I completed a poem I had written some notes while travelling back and I apologise because it does have some duplication.

The Journey

A visit by rail to the big city
Step off surounded by the busy
Scurrying like ants without the advantages
Many struggling with their baggages

A shared frenzy in the throng
Patience shown etiquette wrong
Ticket barriers cause a delay
Filter through and on the way

On to the underground and crowd funnels
Along the pressing passages to the tunnels
Surging flow cascades swamping the platform
Pours through trains doors a hurrying swarm

Claustrophobic feelings spring to mind
Tension increses no place to unwind
How will I get to the door at my destination
Plough furrow with excuse me at the station

I emerge into the fresh air and feel calm
See pedestrians cross roads without qualm
The further I walk from this travelling tumult
Opportunities to absorb surroundings result

Cross the bridge walk along the river
Pockets of serenity this pathway delivers
As I listen I hear cosmopolitan tones
Accents and laguages some unknown

As I walk a long my camera I miss
So many sights including brides kiss
Grooms smile co-ordinated brides dress
Blissful happy posing with finesse

Tourist bus like a Dukw leaves the river
On the bridge red buses passengers deliver
In the distance I spy the London Eye
As its passengers on London pry

Cyclists runners exercise and use phones
“Big issue” punctuates quiet a questioning tone
Short distance further I enter my hotel
Wonder at the city and under its spell