London is useful for that mood
Pavement, pace, no eye contact at all. You can finish a whole private argument before the next packed overground.
I do not sit with it if I can help it. Sitting makes the thought loop. Walking makes it have to keep up.
There is a version of me that will laugh it off in the kitchen and put the kettle on and act like nothing landed. Then there is the version that puts trainers on over socks that do not match and leaves the flat like she has somewhere important to be. She does not. She just cannot stay in the room with her own head.
It is not a wellness thing
I am not out here doing steps for a badge. I am not journaling on a park bench with a matcha. I walk because my mouth gets sharp when I am upset and I would rather spend that on a pavement than on a flatmate who asked a normal question.
People love a big speech. I do not. If I stay still I start building a case. Who said what. What I should have said. How I looked. Whether I was too much. By the time I have finished the prosecution I am exhausted and still in the same doorway.
Outside, the city does not care. That sounds bleak. It is actually the point.
Nobody looks at you properly
That is the gift. In London you can be bright red in the face and walking like you owe the street money and most people will clock you for half a second and go back to their phone. Tourists linger. Locals cut through. I cut through.
I keep my chin down a bit. Not ashamed. Just not available. If someone I know appears I can do the half smile and keep moving. Upset walking has a face. You can spot it if you know what you are looking for. Fast feet. Tight shoulders. Music in. The sort of pace that says do not ask me how my day was.
I used to worry I looked unhinged. Then I clocked how many other people were doing the same thing. Woman in work shoes at 8pm, jaw set. Lad with a rucksack walking like he is late for a fight he already lost. We are all just trying to get the heat out before we have to be a person again.
The argument finishes itself
I can do a whole row in my head between two junctions.
Work thing. Some bloke on the floor talking to me like I cannot count. I replay it. I get funnier and meaner. I win. Then I get to the bit where I have to admit I wanted the last word more than I wanted peace. That part only shows up after I have burned a bit of the anger off. You cannot hear it while you are still sat on the bed picking at your nail.
Dating does it too. The silence after a good night. The message that should have come and did not. I walk that one faster than the work ones. There is a particular clip I get when I feel stupid for hoping. Hope makes me speedy. Ridiculous, but there it is.
Money walks are different. Slower start, then I pick up when I hit the bit where I add up the night I did not need. Cab. Extra drink. The top. I get tight in the chest and my feet answer it like they have been briefed.
Music helps until it does not
Some days I need a song that is a bit nasty. Something with a beat I can match so I do not have to invent the rhythm myself. Other days music makes it cinematic and I get worse. I start starring in my own little film. That is when I take one earbud out and let the buses do the talking.
London noise is good cover. Sirens. Somebody laughing too loud outside a pub. A kid screaming in a buggy. Your drama gets smaller when it has to share airtime with everyone else’s.
I do not cry on these walks if I can avoid it. Not because I think crying is weak. Because once it starts on a main road I feel exposed, and exposed is the opposite of what I came out for. If it is going to happen it happens later, in the bathroom, makeup already half off. The walk is for the sharp bit. The messy bit can wait its turn.
Packed trains ruin the spell
A good upset walk needs pavement. The second I get shoved onto a packed overground the whole thing stalls. You cannot finish an argument when you are in someone’s armpit pretending you cannot smell them. Your body goes back into public mode. Face neutral. Bag in. Sorry, mate.
So I time it if I can. Miss a train on purpose. Take the long way round the retail park. Cut down the road with the bad lighting because there are fewer people performing being fine. I would rather add fifteen minutes than stand still with it buzzing under my ribs.
People say just go home and talk about it. Talk to who. The kettle. A diary I will close and shove under a magazine. Sometimes yes. Sometimes the only honest conversation I can have is the one where I am moving and nobody can answer back.
What I am actually walking off
It is rarely one clean thing. That is the lie of the phrase having a moment. It is usually a pile. Late shift. A look I did not like. A bank app I should not have opened. Someone going quiet. The flat being loud when I wanted it still. All of it sits in the same place in my neck.
I can be cocky in a kitchen and still need a street. Those two versions live together. The smirk is for other people. The pace is for me.
I do not always come back nicer. Sometimes I come back colder, which is not the same as calm. Cold is useful at work. Less useful if a flatmate wants a chat about whose turn it is to buy bin bags. I have to clock which version just walked through the door.
If I am still going too fast in the hallway I put the radio on and do my face even if I am not going out. Sounds vain. It is just a reset. Mirror. Breath. Right. We live here. We are not going to take it out on the milk.
The walk does not fix it
I need to say that before anyone turns this into advice. A fast walk will not make him text. It will not put money back. It will not unsay the thing at work. What it does is stop me from sending the message I would regret, or picking a fight with someone who only asked if I wanted tea.
By the time I hit the last stretch I have usually decided one of three things. Leave it. Sleep on it. Or deal with it tomorrow when I am not still hot. That is as close to wisdom as I get on a pavement.
Then the overground comes and I have to stand there with everyone else, all of us pretending we did not just drag our whole private life down the road at speed. That is London. You finish the argument. You tap in. You fix your face in the window. You go home.
