We sit in the alternate sun and cloud under a tree in Finsbury Park as August brings us a chilled breeze. Brunch is curtailed by a loss of appetite but look around, look around, and appetite is the tracks, and the train, and the fuel that this place itself is built on, powered by; appetite, and: resisting that appetite. I lend ‘Don’t Look Back’, read some Auden and we recall my supremely awkward greeting, my lips on a breastbone and a table full of mouths now slightly agape.
“How are you?” I ask. “How are you?” I repeat, as if the answer is what the night hinges on. I take an entire bottle of chilli sauce relish from the chicken shop and hug it close to me.