AN OPPORTUNITY MISSED

'We're going to the Hillgrove,' he said of himself and the woman'd come all the way from Italy to be with him when he collected the belongings he'd left behind at the weekend.
'Nice pub,' I said.
'You ever go there?'
'Not anymore,' I said.
'You barred?'
'No.'
'Oh,' he said, disappointment in his voice. 'I thought you might have a story there.'

FRIDAY SATURDAY SUNDAY

We met in Kino’s. She was there before me.
I put my bag on the chair opposite where she sat and said, ‘I’ll get myself a drink,’ she already had one.
Whilst ordering coffee a man in a skirt came up beside me at the counter.
Back at the table I fiddled with the chairs and my bag before sitting down. I was nervous. I hadn’t seen her over ten years when I’d driven her to Benidorm where I bought a case of Spanish brandy took me two weeks to drink.
‘I usually use next door,’ I said nodding towards the Arts House.
We talked for two hours until after winding down the last twenty minutes we said goodbye and a brief hug.
‘Keep in touch,’ she said.

Saturday we left about nine-thirty arriving Gunnersbry Lane and parking by the sports ground at five to twelve.
From the tube we joined the march at Piccadilly and for the next five hours: walked to and from Hyde Park; stood listening to speakers, a brass band and Show of Hands; perused stalls; bought badges; picked up radical left wing papers and pamphlets; and mingled at Speaker’s Corner.

Sunday I paid for Saturday. Stiff, and up an hour later than planned forgetting to put my watch forward missing the first half of the Archer’s omnibus.
Afternoon on the allotment: planting; weeding; planning; sun; difficult to leave.