a london day

Waterloo bridge: a cycle-courier overtakes me, cycling rather leisurely for a courier (they usually ride like Kamikaza. I'll write more about them someday). Suddenly a man walking on the bridge calls to him: the courier stops on the side of the road. They embrace, and kiss on both cheeks. I watch with interest and a sudden, unexplained joy.
Physical contact is very rare here. Certainly in the street. People would do their best not to touch eachother. British manners are all about that.

On both sides of the bridge, colours are dull and grey. But it is an exception. This automn has been crisp and sharp in colour, especially on Waterloo: the National Theatre in purple, the trees in blue, the Eye all red, the river deep and moving. It's been edgy.

* * *

That evening, in Soho, with S, C and A, at the Humous Bar. (This place is straight out of Tel-Aviv. But boy they try to hide their Israeliness. The humous's with Foul - broadbeans - is excellent).
I always get totally disorientated in Soho. Usually I have a good grasp on directions and my surrounding, I know my way in London. But once I step into Soho I become a tourist again. I can't tell north from south; it's alien territory.
We tried to go to the only bar we know there - the Swedish Garlic and Shots, which offers beer with garlic, a formidable combination. The back yard is the coziest place in London; downstairs is heavy metal kingdom, all patrons pierced and tattooed, and you can't see much through the cigarette smoke. Way too hard core for minks. The back yard was packed, of course; we retreated. The sign on the door says:
CASH IS THE KING

* * *

We settled for the coffee place on the corner of Old Compton Street, where the rickshaw riders hang out. D was there, sitting in his rickshaw, on the other side of the road reading a book, obviously wasn't looking very hard for customers.
D came to our housewarming-wedding party at Limehouse, two years ago, with a bunch of other merry rickshawriders. He was wearing a 118 shirt, and kept saying he's looking for 'non-lesbian pussy'. For a goodbye present, he pissed on our neighbours' front garden.
We didn't really like him after that.
"He was just drunk" said Michael. "He doesn't normally behave like this".
Last year on Christmas day we had a nice hanging out in our living room in Hallelujah Villas. Made dinner watched moves played music and just talked. D came with a few other riders. I was of course suspicious but this time he was very sweet; he even washed all the dishes, always a good point with me, and there were lots of dishes.
So we're even. But I didn't feel like saying hi last night.

It was Soho: people walking past were saying
"She's totally drunk: and she's got a pedal push bike. I mean, lucy, you're drunk".
A woman to a man: "She was talking to you, and looking at me the whole evening. I mean the chick of it".