Just after
four in the morning, the bus to work is trundling through the darkness along
the edge of Clapham Common. On the
Common side of the road, in a brightly lit bus shelter, sits a fox.
In Horsham,
an oncoming vehicle catches my eye. It
is a very old VW Camper, a low-rider, meticulously restored and perfectly re-painted in
cream and white. The driver looks
interesting, a slender man, tweed suit, bow tie, old-fashioned bushy moustache
and, I think although it was only a glimpse, half-moon spectacles. From the cab of my little truck I stare down
into the pale interior which looks as if it has been re-organised and
re-furnished to look a bit like a stretch limo.
On a plush bench seat in the back, with acres of legroom, sits a
laughing bride between her two maids.
My least
favourite word in the lexicon of management-speak is “just”. Can you just … ? Today it is “Can you Just deliver a pallet
for Dubai to an air freighter’s warehouse, as close to twelve as possible ?" This will, of course be in the middle of one
of the year’s busiest working days, the last before the Easter holiday, and
will involve a diversion that will add an hour to an over-long day. Miraculously, after all kinds of delays and
hardships, smoothing out a few customers because of some typical office
blunders, and working flat out from four thirty onwards, I arrive at one minute
to twelve, am unloaded, and depart at one minute past.
Down a grimy
backstreet in chaotic Brixton, a tall girl with an upturned white face and long dark red
hair parted symmetrically, and totally the wrong shade of pale red lipstick on
a un-kiss-ably gloomy mouth, is walking with stately grace, arms straight and
holding a flower pot at zipper height, from which stands incongruously a single
perfect orchid on a very long stalk, its creamy white flower with an erotically
hot pink centre facing forward only six inches away from her lips, as if
embodying or symbolizing or pre-determining the imminence of that magically
transforming kiss.
A big
Caribbean mum clambers on to the bus with three carrier bags in each hand. Four children follow, three girls and a tiny
boy. The girls ( 7?, 9?, 11? ) are also
carrying bags. They have identical spectacular
showbiz hairstyles … upwardly mobile dark curls sculpted like flames and culminating
in a gold tinted peak well off to the left.
All four children have brand new violin cases slung across their backs.
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