Lonely Gloves

When I see them around London, I think of Michael. Three years ago, in the first house we lived together (not far from Brockwell park: my first proper home in London), he often talked about starting a repisotary where people could find their lost glove. A Lonely Glove Club; perhaps with find-your-glove events. Rickshaw riding around Soho, he would see dozens of them everynight. Lying on the floor, lonely, miserable, their true partner somewhere on the tube going home.

Later it became an idea for a website. Find your perfect matching glove. It would have pictures of them all (like dating websites, or police criminal shoots). Like many of Michael's ideas - the robot-roller-blading disco benefit, or the special dish rack he was planning to build- this one didn't materialize. He just never got round to it. But he did collect the lonely gloves, and put them on his wall, above his desk.

Blu, on the other hand, collected them for more practical reasons. You always lose gloves, she said, so it's better to have some spare ones. So she picked this glove off the road, and when she ended up putting her hand into it (four months later), she found a hundred pounds note.

Funny, I just realized it's Michael's cycling winter-gloves I'm using. He left them behind in Honor Oak in one of the broken toilets. Someone was supposed to pick his stuff up, but it never happened, and when eviction came I appropriated them.
But then again, he doesn't really need them in Namibia.