The Art of Slow

Rush hour in central Tokyo: Fast.

Winston Churchill was once described (possibly by himself) as “a young man in a hurry”.  Obsessed by his own mortality (his father and grandfather both died relatively young) he was convinced he would not live far beyond his thirties and set out to achieve as much as he could before then. 

I can sympathise.  I did not meet the love of my life until I was almost thirty, and I didn’t fully embrace climbing – something that has since become an obsession – until shortly after that. I sometimes think about what I really achieved between the ages of, say, 22 and 28.  The answer is, of course, quite a lot – graduating (from both university and law school), moving to London, qualifying as a solicitor, investing a huge amount of time in my career as a city lawyer.  I spent time with friends, I spent a fair amount of money, I ate a lot and drank a lot more.  But I sometimes feel like a lot of that time was just a bit superficial. Throughout my twenties I worked hard at a good law firm with great people. I progressed through the ranks and, I think, was appreciated and valued. Yet I was working long and, often, stressful hours in a job that ultimately did not inspire me. I ran a marathon, but also spent a huge amount of time in an underground gym running on a treadmill in front of MTV.  I also spent five years in a relationship that started out well, but in time brought a lot of frustration and unhappiness (to both parties). So ever since then, I’ve found myself in a bit of a hurry. When I think about all I want to do in life, I feel, sometimes overwhelmingly, that I don’t have enough time; that I am living life in a rush. Now, however, my broken leg (or, as I have taken to calling it in the middle of the night, my stupid leg) has led me to a startling discovery: there can be pleasure in life in slow motion.

Until a couple of weeks ago my life was full of instant gratification: instant communication on my blackberry, 25 minutes to whiz to work on my bike; two minutes in Café Nero picking up my morning Cappuccino; early morning sessions at the climbing wall (15 minute warm up, 40 minutes climbing, 10 minute stretch, 5 minute cup of tea).  Now, I am forced to take my time – over everything.  It takes half an hour to get the blood moving in my leg so I can get out of bed in the morning without pain.  A further half an hour to wash myself (including periodic rest stops perched on the edge of the bath). Ten minutes to climb up and down the stairs each time I need to visit the loo.  Half an hour spent hobbling the 400 yards to the corner of my road and back for a morning coffee.  I recently saw an advert in my local butcher for the “Slow Food” movement – a plea for a return to slow grown, slow reared, seasonal produce.  Well I am now the sole member of my very own “Slow Life” movement, and it actually isn’t that bad. I know people look on sympathetically at the time it takes me to do anything. But I now think, what’s not to like about taking things slowly? If nothing else, it fills the day - there’s only so much day-time telly I can take.  And if taking things slowly helps the next six weeks to pass, so I can get off these crutches and back up to full speed, then I’m all for it.