The idea of travelling on foot seems simple enough until you set out.
First there's the problem of audience. You walk down the pavement trying to marshal your thoughts. You start to let go, clench a fist and almost start talking to yourself as the excitement of the plan begins to build. The plausibility at last, of seeing this thing through, the one great chance of your life that almost seems to be within reach when you realise that the traffic is stationary, waiting for the lights to change and every window rolled down and every driver looking you up and down as you suddenly become aware of their presence; the flow of the dream staunched in a flash for fear of appearing mad.
You wait for the lights to change. Your thoughts settle: the eddies and drifts of imagination settle in ever decreasing circles as you do your best to look like any other bored punter on some mundane errand.
The path through the park creates some kind of sanctuary.
But right now, having just had a pair of freshly cleaned socks flung into my face, all of this will have to wait.