I must have been down here before a thousand times without really seeing it.
The postman says the place I need is on the 4th floor. Go through a smoked-glass door.
Can't miss it.
Grey phone on a grey desk.
Half an hour to kill so I head on back to the street.
Green bench on green grass. Light a cigar.
Shiver in the thinness of my skin so I get up and walk.
The path leads down to The Mayflower Theatre. Poster for a pantomime with stellar cast. Picture of Nigel Havers who hasn't aged a day since 1974. Julian Clary who has...
A stone hut that's had its edges worn smooth:
a sort of igloo gathering moss.
A wooden door painted red.
Time to go.
Cross a street where I once had an altercation with a cyclist who thought that he was exempt from stopping at red lights.
A bar with silver tables set on the pavement Mediterranean style.
Too cold for anyone except for die-hard smokers to sit at them.
I dial the number just like the postman said.
Wait at the desk where the receptionist
has been replaced with a plastic eye set in the ceiling.