WHY WE SIT: ON MEN, MEMORY, AND MORTALITY
Benches, community and the places men go.
Welcome to another Sunday issue of THE RESET, coming from a very sunny countryside writing trip. Hit play for context:
OVERDUB 005
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WHY OLD MEN LOVE BENCHES.
Brian loved this bench. 1958-2025.
The plaque catches the light. Its brass, screwed into place, expertly etched with care. An unavoidable memento of a life. An old bench with a new plaque. The irony of its newness marking a death isn’t lost on me, nevertheless I sit in Brian’s seat. I sip mint tea.
This isn’t my first time here, it’s quickly become my favourite spot. Brian had good taste… perfect light, a view of the neighbourhood, trees to throw shade… but if I return, does his seat become mine? When the reaper rocks up, do I get a plaque too?
Definitely not a fling, this bench thing feels comfy, familiar. A relationship of promise. Potential. It’s become my place to ponder, unplug from the feed. The park is littered with my people. The men who sit on benches, silently, happily watching the world pass at pace. They’ve figured out something I was never taught, something I’m learning in real time…
Benches are Thrones of Local Lore. Brian and the like understand that what might look like loitering, is actually something far more profound. The bench is a throne from which to reign.
Every park, street corner or town centre bench, hosts a king who has seen it all before. He’s seen your artisan coffee shop come and go. Your instagramable brunch spot replaced three times. Old men on benches aren’t quietly waiting for their time to end, they are the timeline.
Scrolling is for the distracted, scanning requires focus. The lost art of watching the world move is their specialist subject. They’re CCTV with opinions. They know who’s not really jogging, they know who’s skipping school, skipping work, skipping their marriage…
I call the neighbourhood mine, but I wasn’t born here. I own the roof I live under, but didn’t build it. Can I claim Brian’s bench as my own, or do I have to earn it?
For the men on benches, weather is gossip, it’s the only small talk they can bare. When the pigeons fly low, it’s a conversation. Why? It’s a sign. There’s a temperature change due; Arthurs knees will flare up and the rain is coming. Science.
Strangers confess to them, the men not the bench. A polite silence granted when sharing a seat, is often broken by a person in need. It’s something about their well-earned nonchalance. Their wisdom lines. They are the parks own confession booth, built in the perfect light, placed under the tree that throws the perfect amount of shade.
Brian was one of those men. He made this bench his place to disappear. I’ve always been fascinated by the places men go. The spaces we choose to occupy, to laugh, to linger. I recognise his role in the village as a hyperlink to another decade. His choice to see a community grow, gentrify, change. Does taking his seat land me with the role of human footnote for the postcode?