Walking in the dark along North Road, I see a couple ahead of me. They are embracing. Holding each other tight. Clasped. I approach gingerly, stepping onto the road. They break away from each other. One calls out – Oh, she’s seen us. They are boys. One black, one white. Giggling, they scuttle off, arms around each other’s shoulders. They looked the same. Small-hipped, tiny-bottomed – both wearing hoodies. Good morning, I say. It’s alright. It’s alright.
The moon was almost full. A great cheese. A white-yellow round. The air is cold. A freezing that stills everything and everyone into a quietness.
I lay on the couch. A first-timer, he kept calling me. I watched the red ebbing out of me into the bag. He was kind, gentle. They all were, despite my grouch-iness. A good thing. One good thing done that day. Who has it now? Did it help? Did it save a life? I hope so.
It was as if she were following me. In her little red van. Speeding along. A sharp handbrake at each post box. A little woman with a long rope of keys. How does she know which one to use?
They interviewed a play writer. His office is a library. In Islington. Eight till six he writes there. Why? Does he like the sounds, the ordinary life playing our around him?