when the autumn weather turns leaves to flame

Phildar has rung me to ask why I'm not going to the Rivoli. 'Is it a man?' No, it isn't. We get off that subject and consider instead her compulsion to put policemen into jumpers. 'How are they supposed to press the trigger if their little hands are frozen?' she asks. I hold an image of her handing out cable knit jumpers and fingerless mittens to the boys in blue. We pause to contemplate the affect of aging. The pausing mainly involves helpless laughter.

I tell her that I saw a jumperless policeman on Long Acre on Friday Night. He was shouting directions to somoene in a South London accent and looked as though he was out well past his bedtime. I mentioned it to Mole at the time. They're getting younger; they definitely are. Mole was more concerned with the boy's use of language. We'll be writing letters to the broadsheets yet.