Walking home, nearly there. Two men, neighbours talking to each other over the fence, ordinary, but not. One was a large black man, huge shoulders, baseball cap with tag still attached, shiny trainers and a deep baritone sinking, sinking, The other a grey haired OAP, stick in hand, hunched as if he’s playing the role, voice juddery but very much alive. They converse, a connection; laughter, laughter, they laugh together, harmonising their distinctive melodies and all of a sudden neither of them exist as things, but as air filled with mirth. My head is split but touched, somehow something collapses in my expectations, which I suddenly realise didn’t belong to me anyway, but had been slipped into my pocket. And there is the Real in front of me, the crack between laughing lips, where everything flows towards, disappearing inside. Connecting the neighbours a pamphlet, the object of their amusement, they point, rear back with pleasure; a political statement by the labour party, elections may 6. The men in red never saw this coming. Next thing I know I’m on my doorstep, a warm swirl in my belly and, despite my own inclinations, the world seems like a much better place.
MG
