I went seeking some sun. Just a little. And on my face. I went to the little park that was once a maze. The man who is always there, lying flat out on a bench sun-bathing, was there, as were two women, smoking and talking. I sat down on the bench just before theirs. I shut my eyes. I wanted to listen, not to them, necessarily but to all the sounds around me. I heard the metallic click of one of the women’s Zippo lighter. I smelt the acrid stink of cigarette. Somewhere, in one of the gardens along North Road, someone was trying to start up a petrol-fired lawn mower. I heard the chock of a tennis ball. A man was coming towards me down the path. He walked self-consciously with small, tentative steps. I heard the chirrup of small birds. Where they blue tits or sparrows? A heard the song of blackbird. I heard car engines, tyres on tarmac and gulls. No silence. But it was restful. And the sun, though filmy, did warm my skin.
