Au Suivant

Its Sunday night, the day has been the sunniest of this year. Hampstead heath was heaving. Down from the men’s pond, overlooking one of the open ponds, people stripped off and acted like it was 80 degrees.

A posh girl, only yards away, evacuated her personal life into a mobile phone. She had evidently been abroad; spent the night with a guy who was just about ok. Somehow her clothes got wet, or were un-wearable (I forget).

So she wore his surfer shorts and surfer tee shirt on the bus. And it was full of people going to work, and there she was dressed in inappropriate clothing. She interspersed her story with “Its very private,” and then proceeded to let anyone in earshot know inner workings of her sex-life.

People close by had another glass of wine. Another group were talking about buying English lessons, either as a Christmas or Birthday present. I fell asleep for fifteen minutes or so, and dreamed about nothing in particular.

The heat retracted, and we left; walking through the privileged environs of Highgate and then down through the brutal concrete of Archway.

The lady in the flat below has an accordion, and when I pass her door today Jacques Brel springs to mind. I imagine her playing Amsterdam, because it suits an accordion. But for continuities sake, I will have her play Au Suivant or Next as it’s known in English.