For Lewisham it was an otherwise quiet evening. So, I went next door to remonstrate with whoever was endlessly mowing. Handsome, forties, with a bit of a belly, he mowed the border of what had been the Salvation Army old people’s hostel. I supposed he was one of the guardians — folk paying to squat in buildings awaiting development, to deter non-paying squatters from tipping up with their dogs on strings, army surplus jackets bulging with beer can bongs and contempt for toilets. He mowed on. I did the English thing of staring, hands hovering midway to hips, brows hoisted. He took his palm off the gas. ‘Sir, yes?’ Absolutely self-assured. ‘Er…hello…yes, to you, also. Iestyn. And…I was hoping to borrow the lawnmower.’ ‘Jake. Are you in the harpist’s flat?’ I nodded. ‘Staying till my new flat has floors.’ ‘How do you know her?’ Suspicious — did he think I might have broken in, suddenly thought I’d mow the lawn, failed to find a mower, conveniently heard one being plied outside…? ‘Sing
Just a flaneur, flanning away.