On Calculated Risks

On the way home from the pub there's a short cut I take, a ten-foot, a Back, arguably not a mews. Depending on the weather, it is anything from pitch black to pretty light at midnight - the best being full moon on snow, followed by full moon on wet tarmac. You might run into other people on it - certainly at seven or so the Yooves hang out there. The only time I felt nervous is a few weeks back when it was 3am, I was in an alternate frame of mind, and two people were behind me.

When all's said and done it cuts three seconds off the journey.

When I go out on expotitions, say to Ashford, or Faversham, or Sandwich, it has struck me on occasions that no one knows I am there, and if anything happened to me, no one would know who I was. The first day of cat sitting some years ago for brisingamen and peake saw me perched three quarters of the way up a cliff, apparently too steep to climb, and too scary to descend. Nobody knew I was there. (This was premobile, but who could I have phoned who was less than two hours away?)

Last Sunday I met up with someone in the wilds of Sheppey, who I'd known only as a virtual presence. Again, nobody knew I was there, although I did mention something to a mate.

Is this paranoia, I wonder. Or just being more aware of calculating the odds. Charley says, don't talk to strangers.

I am heartened though by a sense that people notice when I am not here, so search parties would be sent out sooner or later. But still, probably, later.