A wine bar in Soho. On the wall, there’s a black and white portrait photograph of a well-dressed, elderly lady. She’s smoking a cigarette.
One can imagine she’s probably wearing her best frock. Maybe she’s attending a grandchild’s wedding, in the East End. I stare at the picture for a moment, then I make my judgement.
“That woman has the same eyes as our window cleaner.”
It’s a non sequitur that causes my wife to collapse into fits of laughter.
But, when she’s recovered, she scrutinises the picture more closely and realises that my assessment is correct. The subject does have the same eyes as our window cleaner. She could plausibly be his mother.
At this point I tell her that, while we’re on the subject of our window cleaner’s eyes, they are not in such a good state these days. He had to have a serious operation on one of them. They had to pop his eye out and remove some film from the back of it.
Also, on the subject of his elderly mum, she hasn’t been well. She’s broken both her hips.
My wife says the whole conversation is starting to feel like improv.
* * *
Balham Tube Station. Two women pass each other in the rush-hour scrum at the ticket barriers of Balham Tube Station and a failed interaction telescopes out over the course of a few seconds.
A brunette about to exit the barrier recognises a blonde-haired acquaintance who is approaching the entry gates from the other way.
She raises her eyebrows slightly and acknowledges her blonde friend with a warm smile.
But her eye contact isn’t reciprocated. So the brunette gives one of those fluttery little chest-high waves that aims to grab your attention while also apologising for the imposition.
This gesture also goes unreciprocated by her friend.
Realising she will very soon find herself beyond the range of her friend’s peripheral vision, she makes a final appeal, bleating out “JO!”
But Jo is marching on toward the ticket barrier – headphones in place, contactless card at the ready, places to go – and the salutation goes unheard.
I continue on down the escalators in the same direction as Jo, bound for a different destination.
Maybe, when we reached the platform, I should have stopped her and explained what had just happened. I could have easily passed on the message.
* * *
My back garden. South London is like a pan set at a low simmer, bubbles of noise great and small surround me.
The night has the echoing ambience of a dispatch from a war correspondent – like an old BBC report from Lebanon or Iraq – except, of course, in this case the negative connotation is inverted.
It is 8.35pm on Bonfire Night. Only a few of the firework flashes can be seen from the vantage point of our garden, thanks to the light pollution. But there are benefits to being away from the major displays.
Sometimes a rocket will fizz in a long arc across the empty sky, all the more impressive to witness because it’s alone, not crowded by cousins. Then it will detonate with a snap.
I hold a mouthful of wine in my mouth and close my eyes to savour the noises, near and far.
Some of them register close by: gunshot bangs that I hear echoing off to my right at 1 o’clock and 4 o’clock. Moments later, I hear a trail of pyrotechnic whistles. One screech begins as another ends, overlapping to form an uncanny din.
From the coal shed to my left, I hear the long exhale of our boiler. It has finally been pressed into prolonged service due to a visit by my mother-in-law and the need to use the central heating for the first time since last spring.
In the darkness, the pleasant taste of the wine is joined by the smell of cooking garlic, which wafts out of the kitchen behind me.
I open my eyes and watch another rocket go up into the sky.
I notice someone extinguish a light in an upstairs room at the end of the street. It fades quickly, but not immediately.
