On the intimacy of small parties

I like Sunday morning before 8am the best of all. But only if I get outside.

It was 6:35am on a Sunday and an old man with high wasted beige shorts was cycling without hands down the tree line in the narrowest part of Clapham Common bir-inging his bell every few meters or so for no other reason than the joy the sound brought to the otherwise empty park.

No one but me and him and the sun, and all of us laughing.