The sun was out to play yesterday, and Olive suggested we pack a picnic and head for the South Bank. “Pour une vue sur la mer,” he said, and I kissed him on the cheek for the good idea.

We packed mortadella and grilled asparagus sandwiches, a Tupperware of leftover asparagus risotto, and two banana muffins wrapped in foil. We walked across the Waterloo Bridge and found a sunny spot outside the National Theatre. It’s not like it’s summer, though, so I kept my scarf on.

We walked east for walks, for hot coffees in paper cups at the end of the pier. The OXO building from the front is nice and all, but suggests secret parties and midnight dancing in the back-end courtyard.



Today we were sprawled, the two of us, on the carpet, on the sofa, just sprawly on a Friday morning, and I said, “How come we’re so lazy?”

“Lazy?” he said, as if it were evident we were made to sway in hammocks all day. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I said, “we sure seem to lie about.”

“Would you rather work in the City and snort cocaine and work fifteen hours a day?” he said, because obviously there is no in-between.

“Maybe,” I said, “but only because I’ve never done anything like it.”

He may have snorted, or rolled his eyes. French people, you know, they’re so good at contempt.

“Aren’t you interested in lives you haven’t lived?” I said. “I mean, the life of a City worker is so far from anything I’ve ever been interested in, and I just wonder, you know?” I said. “I wonder what it would be like.”

“I suppose I wouldn’t mind it,” he said, “for five minutes.” “It’s not that I’m not interested in lives I haven’t lived,” he said, “but the life of a City worker? Not really.”

“A bounty hunter?” I said.

“No,” he said.

“A tiger?” I said.

“No,” he said, and like suburbs still we sprawled. We were looking up at the ceiling, and already I could see the jungle in my mind.

“A monkey?” I said.

“What kind?” he said. He propped himself up on an elbow, and there was anticipation in his eyes.