I just warned myself two seconds ago to forget about Crossingham Road. You can’t write about Crossingham Road. There’s nothing in it. And then I immediately thought, “Why? Why should I forget about Crossingham Road?”
A thing exists, a road, a person, a tree, anything. It’s here and there’s a reason for that and that’s because it actually does exist, right here, so why, Mr. Pontificator, do you think this fine little road needs to be forgotten? That can’t happen. Why don’t we sit right down and talk it out.
So it’s pretty obvious that for a second there I didn’t want to have to do it but I’m a tourist. The need to explore the world and see what’s out there and experience different worlds and cultures is deeply ingrained in the minds and souls of us tourists. We’re hopeless like that.
And sometimes you have to pick yourself up off the ground, dust yourself off, unless it’s raining, and carry on up Crossingham Road to see what you can see. Because, as in so much of life, you’ve never been up there. And it’s waiting. I wanted to go. But I didn’t want to bug anybody that might be up there. I’m shy. So I hesitate, something I’m excellent at.
It’s chemistry. It’s everything. The name “Crossingham” brings back memories. Cross. Cross it out. King’s Cross. Cross of Iron. Old wooden cross. Crossingham. Crossword puzzle. Crossing the ham. Pass the ham. Crossing the road. Crossingham Road. What kind of a name is that, anyway, Crossingham? Sounds English.
But if there was a town in England called Crossingham they must have burned it down, plowed it over and planted sheep, meanwhile expunging from all memory any hint or residue of a recollection of a town called Crossingham, a scenario very doubtful, knowing England as I do.
There’s no English town and never was by the name of Crossingham and I’ve been over every square inch of England and I’m not the only one. Many of you I’m sure have done the same. Why doesn’t matter. So where does that leave us?
So I get it. Crossingham was the name of the first explorer to discover this road or maybe it wasn’t there yet and Crossingham, she or he, was the one who punched in the road on this ancient isle. I don’t think the natives did. But it would have been more like a short jab because the name of the road is almost as long as the road itself. And that’s pretty cool.
I did it again. I can’t just go walking up there. Who do I think I am? I stand at the crossroads of my life. It’s such a fine sign too. Perforated galvanized steel sign pole about seven feet and fine looking smallish rectangular sign with easy to comprehend coloured block capital letters indicating for weary travellers from anywhere the name of this pretty nondescript looking road.
This newish deploy of this style of signpost has popped up at a few spots. “That’s the signpost up ahead—your next stop, the Twilight Zone.” Rod Serling was right. The potential for mayhem and illogic is just up ahead. The guy just never gets old. He’s dead though. Something else to think about at the crossroads.
I’m glad I don’t stand at the crossroads of my career because my boast was I didn’t want any sort of career. And I’d look like a fool to myself now if I’d made a big success of something. I look like a fool anyway but it’s more the type of fool I envisioned for myself. The type who thought he did his best and thought wrong. With a splash of irony. I can live with myself which, please believe me, hasn’t always been easy. Together we can.
So much for the confessional at Crossingham Road. Now I’m running low on time and have to get going because I’m needed elsewhere and the voyage of discovery has to wait again.