We’ve been South again, just for a few days. New arrivals to meet, folks to see, places to visit, shopping to be done. You know the kind of thing. As always, it got me thinking about people. I watch people a lot when I’m in a populous area. Sometimes with wonder – an underpaid waiter in a restaurant giving fabulous service. Sometimes with desperation – a soon to be mother standing outside the doors to the maternity unit smoking as if her life depended upon it. In fact, that woman standing there, wreathed in smoke, Venflon in back of hand, overweight and unkempt was so shocking to me that I could think of little else for the rest of the day.


My initial and anger and revulsion brought about something unexpected. A new kind of awe and respect. Not for her, no matter what your circumstances you can at least offer your baby a chance by giving up smoking. No, a new awe and respect for city dwellers. When I arrived home to Skye, it was utterly dark, utterly silent, the air was like wine, the water unsullied with chlorine. I thought back to my visit to Oxford, that is where the real work of humanity is done. Not here, me pootering about, playing with trees and deer. No, the real work of humanity is a nurse who will treat that awful patient just as she would treat her own sister, a hotel cleaner who day after day follows the same dull routine, the research scientist, the receptionist, the cop and the crossing guard.

All these people, these amazing city workers make the world happen. In medicine and law, hospitality and hygiene, in finance and service and supply and manufacture. I take my hat off to you people. You people who can tolerate the orange glow and traffic noise, the dirt and the smell, the proximity of other bodies. You are truly incredible. I now see that my own life is that of a monk or a hermit, merely peeking occasionally into the real world of people. I am grateful to you and for the work you do, as I know that I could not, for all the tea in China, live and work in a city.