This week I noticed some panes of glass in a window on my walk home – they were red and blue and green and glinted with strong colour against the brick walls. There is the shape of a ship in one, with white sails and elaborate blue waves.
I have a visit from a friend and we walk home, attempting to trip each other down the street. Past the white church, right onto Brick Lane, and left towards my flat.
Mikey gives me a postcard to pop up which makes a wee garden to grow in my kitchen. Something makes me think about Sian’s words on Haz’s sister, studying French and Arabic: “think of the districts of the world she can live in” she said and the phrase rolls in my mind. Districts of the world, as I look out over the rooftops towards the medical centre and the brick houses and council flats.
On Saturday I sit out on my roof in the sun and turn my face upwards. Inside, I can hear the music from the radio and the chat of DJs. There are a million things I should be doing, but this is much better. The neighbours across the road wave, and beneath me two girls run races from one end of the road to the other. Their headscarves fall off to the ground and their footsteps are in perfect spiralling unison slap slap slap. The ice cream van tinkles unseen from behind a hidden corner.
On Sunday after the baby’s head wetting, there is a downpour of rain onto sunburnt skin as we run down the street towards the yellow glow of the bus.