The City


By nine o'clock the breadless hosts of clerks are penned, the typists
pooled. Unhurried girls are at their counters, and urgent men in suits
debouch importantly, going somewhere else. Windows all have wall to wall
extravaganzas on display. Instore, ex-wives experiment with scent, feel
flimsy silks with foreign names, anticipating captivating Mr. Right tonight.
And bagged trousered perambulists load up their ready meals on wheels
without consulting shopping lists, or checking out the hidden extras. After all,
there's rent to pay, and tally men, and next door neighbours.

At noon the punters take their ease, confined in cafés, squeezed in
queues. They fork at shepherds pie in bars, eat neat sandwiches with
pinkies raised. Smart temporary tycoons suck at banned cigars, admiring
their mirrored style, snake-eyed. A clique of representatives amuse each
other with bad jokes, and how they laugh to hear a fellow traveller's
tale about the time he almost missed the consummation of a deal, because
he had his hand caught at the wrist.

Now, in gloomy evening exodus, spent consumers congregate, complaining
of their missing buses, and missing their trains. Cars go by, with room
to spare, the emptiness of success. Taxis clatter with yellow signs writ
large, and vans of every size disperse, shouting their names from every
surface.

And so, another city day is done. I waste an hour in the café. Gino Jr.
brings espresso and I fail, again, to finish the cunning crossword. Herself
arrives, notes the single cup (I have a manly understanding with the Ginos)
and looks at me hard. We stroll down to The Embankment, she always
parks a walk away. Driving across the city she tells me about her day.