late night living

There's a man whistling in the street. Outside it's been raining, and it's midnight, but around here there's a whole new life out there. We're a quiet little street, but very mixed and we have our moments.

The red sea supermarket has shut up shop, and Malcolm, the local man whose job it is to hang around the street corners has finally gone to bed. But what is the man whistling? Some enchanted evening? I wonder if he has a black suit and trilby like Gene kelly. but he's out there, perhaps walking the dog, or perhaps grinning from a date at the local greek restaurant. The one which draws kebab fans from all over north london.

In a minute there'll be the whir of an electric vehicle. Our very own midnight milk float, scooting away down the road, with the odd little quiet clink of bottles, and the light thud thud of the cream cartons. I sometimes think of the beginning of under milk wood when he drives past. Gathering together the backdrop of the community scene. thoughts of all those hands nestling up to soft quilts, snores of middle aged men with hairy eyebrows, and the sound of his wheels entering into half dreams to mark the end of the day. I've never seen him. but I don't really need to.

Some nights there's the drama. Two doors down. the man who keeps coming back to his girlfriend shouting. Doesn't happen often. Or the rattle of bins on a wednesday night as everyone puts out the recycling. I often think of the cats at this point. How many have bells round their necks, and how many pace the streets like furry bouncers, staring up the rats.

Only me twitching the curtains here. And a faint twang of next door's indian music playing. He's up late. I thought doctors have to get to work early. Sometimes he plays seduction music. Kind of fun listening to that, but I've mercifully never heard it go further.

late night shadows.