CITY OF STRANGERS

I’ve had to come into town on a warm, late summer’s afternoon. It’s September alright; hot enough for cricket but also the golden glow of sunlight through leaves, and long shadows.

And the town is packed! There’s a claustrophobic Londonish feel about being so close, and yet so far apart from, the slaloming mass of people who shop here. It’s a city of strangers.

They’re not all shopping though. Some seem to be dressed for the twenties - flapper girls with feathers, gents in waistcoats and flat caps, even boys in braces and cheeky sailors uniform. Some party I’d wager.

Meanwhile I’ve been looking for new walking boots for my upcoming trip to Snowdon. Some colleagues, their partners, and I, are going on an adventure for charity in a couple of weeks. Last time I went up a mountain, I realised my old boots had no grip and were letting snow melt into my socks. At least this time there’ll be a few of us.

And hopefully with warm, dry feet.

I often wonder who I’d like to see in this ‘city of strangers’. I mean people I know rather than the guy who just walked past me with a beatbox loudly playing Will Smith’s Summertime. I mean what year is it?

Who would I pick to have a chat with, who’s my friendly face? Who would I want God to teleport in my direction? Who’s out there, beyond the cast of Peaky Blinders and the Blazing Squad?

Well anyway. I got walking boots. The guy also sold me half-price spray, which the sensible odds say I will forget to use.

The bells of St Laurence’s ring out over the flame-coloured trees, the buses rumble by, and the chattering mass of souls swells happily and hotly through the streets. And somewhere in the distance, Will Smith and Jazzy Jeff serenade the summer with a fading beat.