THE STRAW HAT

I thought she was joking. But she stood there with the magazine article in one hand and a pen in another. Nothing in the waitress’s face said more than the words she spoke, so I autographed the page and thanked her.

Later, I watched the traffic from my hotel window. Hundreds of cars and vans crawled along the street below, revving engines and blowing horns. Life down there seemed full of incident, of real drama and concerns – people squeezing their way through London – workers struggling to find food and get to the office on time – women wheeling children to playgroups and nurseries – everyone just trying to stay on their feet as the hordes pushed past. I saw an elderly man, in a white suit and straw hat, lean against a lamppost. An islet of stillness in the blur of the rapids. After a moment, he bent his neck as he slipped his