There’s a reasonable chance that when she wakes up she’ll have no idea where she is. She was hammered last night when we staggered back to my place. She told me repeatedly that she’d never been to Highgate before and I told her repeatedly that she stillhadn’t, as I live in West Hampstead. I feel crap about not leaving a note. There is nothing worse than uncertainty. Personal bugbear of mine. Ancient thing. I resolve to hurry back as soon as poss.
‘Morning, mate.’ I nod to Mr Patel.
He smiles and nods back. He recognizes me from the countless midnight dashes I’ve made to his shop for bread, milk, cheese, frozen chips etc. He’s unilaterally friendly – amazing considering that every day he has to deal with hordes of shoplifting teenagers, stinky winos and tight-fisted bastards who complain about his mark-up.
His mark-up is a disgrace, but I stomach it without murmur for a number of reasons. First, I’m not certain what anything does/should cost. When I do venture into a supermarket I rarely check the price tags. It’s not that I’m loaded, far from it, but I can’t see the point in getting worked up that a bag of crisps used to cost twelve pence and now they cost forty-five. I mean, Brigitte Bar-dot used to be a fox and now she’s, well, not. That’s life. Second, you pay for convenience and I have never found Mr Patel’s doors closed, not even on Christmas Day in 2002 when I felt a desperate need for brandy butter. Third, I don’t want to be grouped with complaining bastards who harass Mr Patel and similar. Once you start behaving like this you’re only a step away from going out with your mates and splitting the pizza restaurant bill according to who ate what rather than in equal shares. It’s not nice.
I pick up a basket and throw in a carton of orange juice, a loaf of bread, two cartons of milk (one tasty, theother skimmed, cos women like that). I can’t decide whether to buy croissants or bacon, eggs and sausage. I have a feeling that Laura is a cooked-breakfast girl but I’m not sure if she’ll admit as much to me at this early stage. Women always try to pretend to men that they eat less than they do. Which is ridiculous: we don’t give a toss what they eat.
I decide to buy the lot and throw in a tin of beans and some fresh-ish mushrooms, which will probably look OK once they are cooked. Mr Patel has clearly seen this type of basket on countless Saturday mornings: he points out the fresh orange juice in the fridge which is tastier than the stuff I’ve picked up. I swap the carton for the tiny bottle of freshly squeezed chilled juice. Hesitate again, then grab another couple. I’m expecting Laura to be in dire need of vitamin C.
It’s a beautiful spring morning. The air is cold but the sky is a calm, bold blue. A pleasantly high proportion of the wide undulating streets of West Hampstead are framed with fat, established cherry blossom trees that have started to shed their petals. Cars parked overnight under them look like they’re dressed for a Hindu wedding. I have an almost girlish delight in the pink carpet (which I am, naturally, embarrassed by). It’s disconcerting that I only just resist picking up a handful of windfall petals and chucking them into the air, just for the pleasure of seeing them flutter to the ground again. I content myself with banging into trees and hoping to dislodge a few petals. I’ve got to keep this impulse under wraps when I go out with the lads for a bevvy tonight or else I’ll be ostracized from the darts team.
Laura is lovely.
Laura who kisses buskers, or at least let me kiss her when I was busking, is lovely.
I’m not a busker. By day I’m a music teacher at a local state secondary school. I like my job but it’s not always easy. I seldom come across talent and confidence. It’s not generally a good idea to show that you are a talented child in the state school system and if you do shine, it’s cooler on the football pitch or in the