Andy is probably totally harmless, but he’s picked tonight to set up his little home outside my flat between my car and Brian’s bike, with the van I’m worried about parked just round the corner.
I’m woken up from light sleep by his conversation with an American. They talk for a while, and I’m roused. The American is gently probing: “So you still haven’t answered my question, what are you doing here?” He’s doing it very well, being personable but just assessing if this is a benign person or if he’s likely to be breaking into cars etc. As I say I’m pretty much certain he’s benign but tonight I’m worried about the van so my brain is on high alert. It’s secure, of course, but this is the last hurdle and my head is gonna be on it.
So I put on some clothes and head down with the intention of putting my mind at rest. Andy is on to me immediately as I walk out of the door to my block. “Evening mate, is that your bike?” he asks me, of Brian’s bike. “No, but it belongs to a mate of mine.” “It needs new mumble mumbles. I could fix that.” It’s 2:30am on a Monday morning. I’m checking on the van so I don’t get pulled into a long conversation with Andy, for whom it is very natural to have long conversations with strangers. He’s got a load of poles, the means to make a shelter perhaps. He’s got a whiteboard. He’s got an easel. He also has a mobile phone and he’s having a beer. I don’t think he’s any threat to anything other than himself to be honest, but he’s erratic and drunk right in front of Bergman. This is London I suppose. “I’m gonna drive to work,” I tell him. And I get in Bergman and drive round the block, then park him next to my van just to see the state of things. It’s secure, couple of stoners on the bench over the river. A lady jogs past on her own which surprises me at this hour. It feels ok, but it’s a hot night and Andy brings a degree of uncertainty to events. I’m awake now. Went to bed at 9 so I’ve had 7 hours sleep already. I can check things and not ruin tomorrow.
I go for a little walk just to check he’s not trying to fix Brian’s bike, and he’s on the move again. “Fucking hell this bus stop is a long way away,” he says and I reckon that’s genuine, he’s heading with his stuff to get the 170 out Roehampton way with his haul of poles and wood. There’s even an old easel. He’s carrying it in shifts from where he was in the lamplight outside my window to where he’s going. He’s different, sure, but I think I was needlessly worrying. As was the American. Andy makes active conversation with anyone who will stop and be part of it. He’s part of the fabric of this city. He’s not a threat to my load, my car or Brian’s bike, I’m concluding. And he’s moving on.
I’m awake now though. It’s 3:37. I’m sitting on the bench where the stoners were, and feeling London gradually shift from night to morning. A light dust of rain. The lights in the park reflecting in the water. Albert Bridge still glowing. I’ll go back to sleep at 4 for an hour or so but I got swept up in the night time summer city. Now it’s started pouring so the van is safe.
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Addendum: Van was safe. Fully unloaded. I feel rested. Client paid.
AlBarclay 