I've been to a MARVELLOUS party ..

The Streets of London

Red bags in hand, I slip out through the high wooden door, and hear it click behind me - no going back. Cold slicks through my thin dress, sends goose pimples up my arms. Night London at 6 on Sunday morning- a street cleaner scoops up rubbish, a solitary woman clacks by without a look. Otherwise, the streets are wonderfully quiet and empty, black tarmac glistening in the shop lights, where last night they were noisily jammed. I like walking through dark cities - who are these stray slouching figures hanging around in ones and twos? Another parallel world on the streets. I am invincible and vulnerable.

Separate Tables

The metal trellis gates at the tube station are locked; I find an open cafe - no, too early for breakfast, but the coffee is hot and milky. A black man and a white man sit at one of the tables. 'Eat some food, man,' urges the black man to his companion. An open can of beer is next to his elbow. 'You can't just drink and not eat. Not good for you.' The white man listlessly pinches a crumb from the paper-wrapped baguette, a token. Two other men suggest the barman serve them some beer. One is garrulous. He's asked if he comes from Wembley. 'Interesting Wembley accent,' I grin. He's very Irish... It's all rather jolly and friendly and warm, with the espresso machine whooshing from time to time. 'Do you know where you're going?' says the Irishman, as I take my cup to the counter, and walk to the door. I turn back. 'I think I do,' I say. He wants to talk to someone, anyone, but I'm on my way. We say goodbye, goodbye. Another door shuts me out.

Homeward Bound

A long wait for the first train. I doze on a hard seat in the station. Then again on the train, as it leaves high cliffs of dirty brick houses behind. When I wake up, the sky is blue, the sun is shining pale winter yellow, the land is flattened.

I'm home in time for The Archers.