Woken from the thickness of a hangover mid morning by a last minute call, I find myself in the afternoon darting down the Jubilee Line, tube map colour grey, yet again into the city. Southwark is one of the newer stations, all concrete and glass, more reminiscent of an airport terminal than the city ones, which more resemble public lavatories. I emerge gopher-like into the inky blue of the cold evening sky.
The randomness of spring weather has brought us central Londoners a cold snap this past week, and a breeze springs up, a real London winter breeze - cold, steady, relentless. Without knowing, my hands perform the simultaneous movement of the English winter-dweller, pulling the scarf up out of my big grey coat, and pulling my beanie down over my brow as I stride down the long straight road.
I turn a corner, take some stairs, and a cold wind like loneliness blows across my shoulders, down my neck and the backs of my arms, seemingly straight through my big grey coat. But tonight I wear it inside my big grey coat, because I'm off to a gig. I'm off to meet a friendly employer and do the one thing that I love to do the most in the world. I give a shrug of the shoulders, and the feeling leaves me, as quick and as whimsical as the wind, and I press on, in my shiny new black shoes.
Tonight, I'm doing a job, so for now, everything's all right.
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