It would have been a nice declension should the earnest, peddling fast, blonde, wicker basket and brake that cried in protest, perhaps she has no boy-friend to fix it, had smiled in her passing, catching my eye as she did or I imagined, in the sad vanity of age, still alert to memories of time when a glance when held, three seconds, they say, was more than a look, then found tonight another, on the Tube when in fascination with her phone caught me in spare and open stare for a time and archly raised her eyebrows as the train…
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