Sacrilege

Walking past the churchyard, deep in the shade of a great yew tree, I spy a pretty tabby cat, with white socks, shitting on someone’s grave.

Flirt

At the bottom of the street lives a builder with a fat, tired-looking wife, and a cheeky little boy so full of life he makes me grin. The builder has twinkling eyes and curly hair. In truth, I rather fancy him. Over the months, we have smiled in a neighbourly fashion, and now say ‘hello’ when our paths cross. Tonight, he walks past me on the hill and gives me a slightly shy, but sincere smile. ‘Hi.’ I breathe, smiling back, then walk a little bit taller all the way home.

Honour

My friend leaves the party. Walking over to say ‘goodbye’, she cups my face in her hand, tenderly kisses each cheek – as is her custom, and looking deep into my eyes, tells me she is there for me, and to let her know if there is anything she can do to ameliorate my suffering. I feel blessed by her Gallic grace. I bask in the cool reassurance of her blue eyes. And I know that she means it; as once I was there for her, she will not demur returning the favour.

Truth

Behind the office, a building is being renovated. Scaffolding abounds. The mews is filled with vans, skips and builders. I look out of the kitchen window. It's lunchtime; the builders are at rest. One walks towards me, 'BIG MAN. BIG HEART.' his t-shirt proclaims. He is well over six foot tall, shaved head, large diamond stud in one ear, a flourescent yellow waistcoat, shorts and big, dusty boots. Certainly, he is a big man, and for all his apparent ferocity, I hope the woman he goes home to can attest to his generous heart.

Marriage

Every morning I pass a pistachio green Nissan Figaro parked neatly in a side street. It is perfectly maintained, shiny and cute, a complete contrast to the dark, 4x4 behemoths with their ugly square lines and tinted windows that otherwise line the Belgravia street. I love this little car, covet it. I wonder who owns it and if it has a name. It looks like a Freddie to me.

Guilty Pleasure

I buy a packet of ‘extremely chocolatey’ biscuits and walk back to my office. As my chocolate craving intensifies, I try opening the packet to eat a biscuit as I walk. In my desperation to get to the sugar, I fumble, and the packet falls to the pavement with a crash. I stoop to pick it up, look around me, embarrassed by my greed. I catch the eye of woman watching me and she gives me a conspiratorial smile – the vagaries of PMS are clearly known to her.

Eye Contact

Heading northbound on the Victoria Line, I sit opposite a goth. He has startlingly blue eyes and pale skin made wan by his dyed black hair. A slight air of effeminacy pervades. I stare. He catches me. We exchange a London smile; fleeting, eyes sliding off sideways. Handsome in his way, I am intrigued. He watches me now. The dance continues to Euston, where he alights.