You used to come to life here… You still do.

The tumblers cascade: words and numbers; a thousand castanets building to a crescendo before gradually falling silent, their song reminiscent of pebbles driven before a wave. The commotion echoes in the void; ricocheting off the brickwork; through the exposed iron.

The departures board at Paddington talks; somehow poignant and yet at the same time visceral, you whisper in my ear.

How could it convey information in a manner that seemed, somehow, sensual? Like so many postcards home.

We all contrive meaning, you said. I believe it’s called post rationalisation, I responded. I don’t like that phrase; it implies cynicism. I would rather think of it as the jigsaw of life; a means of furnishing context, you replied.

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A lithe man replete with pencil moustache, trimmed as neat as can be, silver topped and ferruled walking cane, pince nez, top hat and tails, reeking of expensive cologne, enters the Apple store at 767 Fifth Avenue, Manhattan. His demeanour suits his appearance and with nose held aloft he strides purposefully up to a loitering chap with the logo of the Corporation upon his tee.

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My agent called. Before I answered, I visualised him in my mind’s eye: a tall and stately gent, with prehensile brows that could be raised or lowered like Tower Bridge over charcoal eyes as treacherous as the Thames herself. An old school accent and deep purr that brooked no dissent. I imagine the creak of the leather soles of his handmade brogues and the snap of his cuffs. He’s the old-fashioned sort. Doesn’t touch Zoom, for instance. Face-to-face, letter, or telephone- at a push. I answered. 

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