I have a morning meeting and have to leave at six thirty, grumpy as I shunt the door of my flat closed behind me. Something about the freewheel of my bike, the early morning city light, numbers of the buses, shop fronts dark and the clash of shutters being hauled upwards makes me smile. When I reach Covent Garden, busy with early commuters and street cleaners, I crouch to lock my bike and the colour of the sky makes me stop for a second.
Mnarani Primary exam results emailed from Mr Hassan – remembering corrugated roofs, long low buildings, scrub square beneath the baobab trees.
There are young children cycling to school along Whitecross Street. Their Dad is on a line behind. Stretch. Anchor. The guy on the coffee stand always says hello, there is the grinding of beans, the hiss of steam and a metal bang.
At lunchtime in the park a man nudges along the bench so I can sit down. He is reading a battered paperback “What Women Want Men To Know” and as he leaves he tells me to have a good day and a lovely weekend.