Vignettes of May.
First scents of summer.
Walking towards the park on a late afternoon, surrounded by an enthusiastic buzz of people taking in the sunshine. The smell of spilled beer and the smoke of barbecues and cigarettes wafts through the side streets. Clusters of people cling to bars and restaurants, with the lucky few sitting elbow to elbow, rubbing shoulders at the highly coveted outside tables.
Lukewarm canned IPA paired with crisps, peanut M&Ms and the wafting smells of grass (both the smokeable and unsmokeable kind). As the sun disappears and we can no longer ignore the incoming cold wind, we escape to the warmth of a nearby restaurant and manage to get seated by the bar. The service, despite the late hour, is still in still in full vigour. Following the cheap supermarket beers in the park we now move on to a natural hazy wine, elevating both our spirits and - in our heads - our class. Some grilled flatbreads with salty cheese and charred courgettes, and sweet leeks with cool stracciatella to soak up the wine, as we talk with raised voices to outdo the surrounding chatter and laughter.
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Records play loudly, blasting through the restaurant out into the bright and sunny streets of Shoreditch. A man halts in his step, closes his eyes, and nods his head in the rhythm of the record, a sweet moment to himself, before picking up his pace again. A slight breeze occasionally sneaks through the big open windows to barely reach the toasty kitchen. Passers-by on their idle Sunday strolls, sunglasses freshly dug out this morning for the first summer’s day of the year, iced coffees and matchas in hand, some of the promenaders slightly more inconvenienced with big bunches of flowers from the nearby market tucked to their sides. Groups of twos and threes stand by the wide stony windowsill, in front of them sit glasses of softly coloured wine and small plates with glistening skewers and crispy snacks, leisurely waiting to be consumed and enjoyed.
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The east facing room is flooded with the early morning sunlight. I sit on my couch, toasted by the direct sun beaming through my windows. The faraway city skyline gleams cool and pale in the early morning mist as I laden my sesame bagel with cream cheese, one shmear for each bite, my big mug of tea steaming patiently.
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The sun is slowly setting behind the tall buildings, dunking the churchyard and the willow leaves in a golden hue. We watch on from the small but buzzing pub, as the gold-speckled trees move in the soft warm breeze. The cars and buses slowly snake their way through the traffic and people walk past decisively. The cool pilsner goes down, smooth and crisp.
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A light breeze manages to make its way into the restaurant and mix with the barely visible clouds of steam collecting at the ceiling as the waiter places down a giant light blue and white bowl in front of me. I pick up the wooden chopsticks, lean my head over the heavily laden bowl and start slurping the wide-cut fresh noodles. The aromatic chili oil immediately coats my lips. Seated along a long table, me and the other solitary diners are deeply bent over their soups, face down, interchangeably lifting spoons of broth and wads of noodles to our mouths. An act of concentration and intent. After a few minutes I resurface, sit upright and inhale, like a swimmer reaching the end of the pool. Immediately, a warm lethargy begins to wash over me. Looking down at myself I examine the damage. Two small drops of chili oil have landed on my white shirt. I don’t mind. It was worth it.
.
The door unlocks noisily as I enter my flat. Flowers tucked under my arm, a brown grease-stained paper bag in hand, I get into my room and open the balcony door up wide. Lazily, the fresh warm air makes its way inside while I put on the kettle and turn on the radio. I never really listen to the radio, but there is something comforting about the Sunday morning breakfast show. Like a window into an ideal world. I pour myself a big mug of PG Tips, seat myself on my sofa and start to inexpertly cut the flowers. The hosts continue their cheerful chatter in their safe and sound environment of radio world as the flowers come together in the sage green vase. Happily I lean back and carefully remove the soft cardamom bun from the sticky and greasy paper bag. I follow a big bite of the pastry with a gulp of hot milky tea. The sun momentarily reappears from behind the clouds and brightens the flowers.
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