September 17

A warm evening on the bottom edge of London. I can see Tolworth Tower in the distance: an ugly, grey way to begin London.

     A tall black man with long dreads comes up to the platform. He saunters across the platform, talking to himself, gesticulating and weaving around crowds of squealing teenagers and sneering middle aged commuters.

   Coming closer, I think he looks stoned and then I realise he has seen me and is heading towards me. He has singled me out. What does he want? Why me? Do I look as vulnerable as I frequently feel?

   ‘Ya gotta a light, man?’ he mumbles stepping up to me. He is taller and broader than me. I feel like a child all of a sudden.

    ‘No sorry.’

    ‘Ya what?’

    ‘No light, sorry.’

    ‘Na way, man. Ya kidding.’

    ‘I don’t smoke.’

    ‘For real?’

    I nod.

    There is a tiny pause in which I see an odd twinkle in his eye. What is that, cannabis or mischief? He smiles a huge, endearing fatherly smile.

    ‘Well power on you, ma friend. I wish I coulda bust it. Hava a good day.’

    ‘You to,’ I say, smiling back – a rather forced, relieved squeeze of a smile.