Five am. Driving south on the M1 towards London, listening to the Radio 4 Shipping Forecast. That soothing poetry of distant seas.
The sea areas have a strangely nostalgic resonance. Viking, Tyne, Forties, and their maritime companions were also the names of marketing meeting rooms on the ninth floor of Battersea Power Station, where I used to work. Vast expanses of open sea, reduced to meeting rooms. Water, water everywhere, but never a room to book.
Now, hearing them read aloud brings back fond memories of the people. The meetings, less so.
Somewhere between the sea areas and the wind speeds came a warning of squally showers.
Squally showers. I liked the sibilance of it, even if I wasn’t entirely sure what squally meant. The words seemed to swirl around each other. The sort of combination of words worth keeping in a notebook, just in case it came in handy one day.
Being behind the wheel, I asked Siri to make a note. Hands-free, of course.
Siri dutifully recorded: Soulie shower.
Suppressing the urge to chastise Siri for having cloth ears, and wondering how on earth it got soulie from squally, I paused. Now there’s a phrase. I didn’t even know soulie was a word. Was it even a word? I’d check later, before correcting the note. Some subsequent digging revealed that soulie can be an affectionate term for a kindred spirit, someone with whom you feel a particular connection. That would rather change the forecast.
A squally shower sounds like something to take shelter from. A soulie shower sounds like something to embrace. Perhaps someone brightens your day, you do something spontaneously kind, or you have an unexpected conversation with a stranger. The sort of thing you couldn’t possibly predict but are rather pleased happened.
I wonder whether the Shipping Forecast might accommodate it.
Viking, Tyne, Forties. Variable, becoming soulie later. Good.
I’m slightly alarmed to discover I’ve wandered into self-help territory. I’ve spent years pooh-poohing the genre, and now here I am, finding inspiration in a transcription error on the M1. Surely it can’t be my age? Or, perish the thought, could I be becoming more sentimental?
But what’s this? My 57-year-old self reckons there’s nothing wrong with finding a little motivation in the everyday, provided you apply it to yourself. And don’t inflict it on anyone else.
And under no circumstances turn it into a blog post.