After a week of hot sun and dappled light, dancing through the leaves and blossoms, Whitechapel just got colder. A stern wind picked up last night, and I woke to a dustbin lid clattering around Jubilee Street.
A funny day for a conspiracy, granted, but nine of us met yesterday, whilst the weather was still pleasant. We climbed the stair to an attic room, of a property on Back Church Lane. And the agenda set before us laid out our business – the state of the world before us, our politics and the suitable adequate response to the changing conditions.
All were affirmed: a successful meeting was had by all. And it was agreed that we nine will meet again, informally, for curry. I enjoyed myself, for it is hard to be conspiratorial upon such a lovely day…
Today, magpies bounce around as a wet rain soaks everything. It really has been raining hard but this is good news for my candytuft, aquilegia and a small shrub of marjoram I planted this week-end. My mouth was dry from black licorice as I paced to the local banks along the High Street. I am constantly irked by those in this parish, who, with money and influence, insist on removing all traces of history from the streets. They seem to have it in for the cracks in the pavement and so whole tracts of the pedestrian passageway are forever being wrenched up to make way for cleaner, shinier pavement.
On my return, a street urchin followed me from Cavell Street; a sickly looking child, his eyes rheumy with some infection or pest. And though I neither encouraged nor discouraged him to follow, something about his wide-eyed manner spooked me rather. At the turn of my road, I asked “where are you going to?” to which he gave a moan, turned on his heel and fled, stubbing his toe horribly. And the weirdest thing: the pavement near to my doorway was pocked with spots of bright red blood. It was as if he had got there before me. I don’t know. Maybe I shall look out for him in future.