I stepped out of The Langley, a club in Covent Garden. I looked left. I look right. Which way was the tube? I am one of those people who thinks which ever direction I am facing is north. I decide to go right.

I stumble onto Leicester Square almost like I know what I am doing.

It never fails to amaze me how complicated London streets can be. For someone used to the western US grid city, it is rubix cube on acid.

The tube in the late evening has a totally different vibe from the rest of the day. 99% of the people range from slightly buzzed to totally off of their tits. There is a hum in the air from the chatter of drunks chatting with their mates. When you’re sober on the tube at night you feel a bit separate yet superior all at the same time.

I had been a little worried about being tempted to drink at a work dinner and then drinks after for a birthday boy and girl, but I stayed on the water. Two bottles of sparkling H2O at dinner. It goes without saying, I broke my seal and went to the bathroom at least fifteen times during the evening.

I hopped on the train, plopped into a seat and opened up my book and found the dog-eared page.

At Waterloo a man and his mate got on the train and sat down next to me. I felt the guy sitting directly on my right glance at me so I looked up and smiled. I’m not sure why I did this. The only people I smile at on the tube are babies and even the babies sometimes give me a look that says, “Well that’s a bit forward of you isn’t it? Mum! Did you see that strange woman smile at me?”

“Don’t worry darling.” The mother coos, “It’s just a nasty American.”

“Dear God!” The baby blinks in Morris code.

At work, my desk is right by the kitchen so nearly everyone walks by my desk at least five times a day. I have a bad habit of looking up and smiling as they pass.

(What are the rules for acknowledging people in the office? If you have already said hello and smiled once or twice, should you ignore them for the rest of the day?)

Anyway, I smiled at the guy. Not a big smile. One of those quick corner lift, then my nose back in the book dealios.

I could feel him looking over sussing out what I was reading while he chatted with his mate. Then the most shocking of things happened. He spoke to me. That’s what happens when the English drink. They find themselves capable of having conversations with strangers.

“Is Elephant a good short story?” (The book was called, ‘Elephant and Other Stories’).

“Yeah, it is actually.” I flip the book over and show him. “Raymond Carver.”

“What’s it about? Sorry to bother you!”

“No, no! That’s fine. Umm. . . it’s about this guy that is being bled dry for money by his ex wife, his mum, his brother, his kids. He has no life because of it.”

“Raymond Carver. What kind of stuff does he write about? I love short stories.”

“Oh wow. It’s. It’s a lot of slice of life stuff. Men and women breaking up. Getting together even though they probably shouldn’t. Misunderstanding each other. Disappointment. Check him out. He’s really great.”

“I love short stories. Do you know Gabriel Garcia Marquez?”

My eyes light up. I love Marquez. “Yeah! I love Marquez. Love In The Time of Cholera–”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, One Hundred Years of Solitude, they’re great, they’re amazing but his. . . Hey! You’re an American!”

He didn’t say it like it was a bad thing. Not like, ‘Wow! An American is talking about books!’ It was just an observation. He could have just as easily said, “Hey! You’re wearing a red scarf!”

“. . .But his short stories. His short stories. It is just– He creates this entire world that just grabs me. Pulls me in. In such a short. . . time.” He smiled then seemed at a loss of what to say next. “But I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s always nice to find people who love books.”

I wasn’t quite sure what else to say. It was obvious that he wasn’t on the pull, he was just chatting about books. At least I don’t think he was. I smiled and went back to my story and he gossiped with his mate. When he got up at Stockwell he said, “It was nice talking you. Enjoy your book. Sorry if I disturbed.”

“No, not at all. It was nice to talk to you.”

He got off the train.

Walking along my street later there was a daft song bird twittering away as if it were dawn. You could hear it trilling all the way down the street. I thought it was lovely. I’m sure the people in the flats nearby had a different opinion but the birds song sounded like a happy little smile.

I washed my face and was in the middle of brushing my teeth when Stuart came home. Let’s just say that he would have been among the majority of folks on public transportation in regards to his blood alcohol count.

I peeked over the top of the stairs. “Hi.”

He jumped up like a cat sprayed with a spray bottle. “WHuuuuAHHHHHaaHH!”

He collected himself. “You scared me.”

“I didn’t notice. Did you hear that bird near the school?”

Stuart flapped his arms as he walked up the stairs. “Crazy bird is going to wake up tomorrow and realize- FUCK! It’s winter! What am I doing?”

He stood at the top of the stairs waving his arms like Big Bird. I laughed. He put his arms down and grabbed me in a bear hug.

“Ah, Thomas Cole. I like it when you smile.”

“I smile all the time.”

“No you don’t. Not really.”

We brushed our teeth and went to bed. Behind the wind you could hear the nightingale.

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I was thinking back on the books and movies I read in 2006 and it annoyed me that I couldn’t exactly remember them- sure I know if I have read a book or seen a film but I couldn’t flip down a mental list.

To hide this obvious slide into dementia, I have decided to write down my reading and viewing habits. See the new page on the right if you want to see what I’m up to.

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