This man knows an awful lot about hippos.
This kid was totally entranced by the water.
I saw a man on the train the train the other day. I’ve just started a new office job and I was on my way home. I noticed him because he was reading MX kind of imperiously. But then I noticed his clothes. Pinstriped pants with a perfectly fitted, thick tweed jacket, a silver horse pin adorning the lapel. A dove grey Birkin was perched on his knee like a precocious toddler.
The quiet, immaculate, rebellion of it all. Pinstripes and tweed! The quintessential women’s handbag! And then the lady in front of him moved her shopping to reveal a pair of black smoking slippers with a white trim and white tassels that were so near perfect I couldn’t help staring.
In all the days we wrote: the lazy mornings of piled limbs and shared breath, lunch in the sun, slow afternoons walking by the river and talking.
“One summer we ate nothing but mangos, they must have been cheap that year because Mum bought trays of them. We’d eat them over the sink with the juice all over our faces, dripping down our arms, smeared through our hair. There’s a Cantonese saying that eating too much mango hurts your arse. Well it’s true.”
“That fluttering in your chest when you think about the sheer fucking miracle of being alive, of this being the time out of billions of years that you have consciousness and that any second it will end. That the world is just so beautiful and unlikely and how is it we’re here? On this round floating green and blue thing in the middle of a universe that might be limitless. That at this precise moment all you really want to do is watch reruns of Friends.” Continue reading