This week there is wind and billowing trees, like green bed sheets lifted high, caught and pulled tight. As I walk towards the park at lunchtime the trees move against solid walls and words form in my head like steps, falling one after the other. The way that there is something about the nature of light and water and trees, height, shape and tightness, little things that people do that are always in my mind.
In the park I catch the eye of the boy on the bench opposite as we both lift our heads to a sudden fall of leaves. There is a woman on the bench next to him and I smell a sharp slip of citrus as she peels a clementine.
One night on my way home there is the snatch of a song I love as I cycle past an open window. The lights of Whitechapel Road are garish and I like the flashing neon of takeaway shops and curry shops, car headlights and green illuminated letters on the front of the buses. A couple kiss on the corner of Brick Lane. The air is cold on my face, the smell of the gym on my skin, wet hair cold on my neck. A turn, a shift in this October evening.
My friend is staying with me as we search for houses and I love her company. In the mornings, she gets up earlier than me, and there is something comforting in listening to her move around the room, brushing her teeth and doing her hair. She brings me hot, hot tea and I sip it leaning up against the wall and when she leaves I will get up and start my routine of turning the radio on, washing, dressing, eating breakfast stood up and looking out of the window.
It is Al’s birthday on Friday night and when I arrive there is a gathering of lovely faces. The pub off Holborn is packed with Friday night suits, bodies pressed tight, yellow glowing light and the shine of wood panelling.