The air was soft with early summer promise, and the city moved at a slower pace, as if London itself had taken the day off
It was the last May Day Bank Holiday, and a friend from Manchester was in London and paid me a visit.
We sat chatting about my future plans, including my writing and other interests. He informed me he had plans for a holiday later on in the summer. We supped a few glasses of whiskey, kicking back and enjoying each other’s company.
As my mate and I chatted about this, and wondered why politics is so disjointed. We enjoyed the music playing in the background.
It has come to pass that my book is now printed, and the publisher is slowly placing it in the relevant marketplace at a recommended retail price of £20. However, when Amazon read a copy, they inflated the price to £40.
I asked my publisher, ‘Why is it that expensive?’
The publisher replied, ‘Their algorithm set the price; there is nothing we can do.’
After hearing what my publisher said, I was resigned to the fact and hoped I would generate some sales. It wasn’t long before my mate had to go. I accompanied him to the bus stop and waited. Five minutes after the 73 bus turned into the roundabout of Newington Green, it pulled up at the bus stop.
I said, ‘Bye.’
To a dear old friend, and strolled through the green situated in the centre of the suburb. I had the intention of heading back home when I passed an elderly gentleman near the water fountain.
It is very rare that I stop to say hello to a complete stranger. He looked up from the ground and looked me in the face. He then looked behind to see an open green plain field. I said, ‘Hello, how are you today?’
The white gentleman looked at me a bit closer and replied, ‘Me, are you talking to me?’
I answered, ‘Yes, sir, and what’s your name?’
He stepped closer and responded, ‘I’m Morse, and you are?’
I introduced myself as John, not Fitzroy. It opens the conversation about my writing and conceals my identity. So, I said, ‘John T. Hope at your service.’
There was a park bench nearby. I added, ‘If you’re not busy, let’s have a chat about this and that.’
He was slow on his feet and stepped tenderly towards the park bench. He was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt and blue shorts, and his knees were swollen.
As Morse approached the bench, he said, ‘It is a wonderful day. The sun is out and the kids are enjoying the day. How glorious is that?’
With the same enthusiasm as Morse, I replied, ‘The day could not be more perfect. Please, sit down. Can I offer you a coffee or some water?’
Morse gave a senior person’s answer, ‘No thanks. It will only send me to the toilet.’
He sat on the bench, and I joined him, saying, ‘Tell me, Morse, are you still working or retired?’
Morse responded, ‘No, I’m retired. What do you do, John?’
The sun was high in the sky, circling the green by the time it was ready to dip, when I said, ‘I’m a writer.’
To my surprise, Morse said, ‘I’m a retired writer. What do you write about: fiction or non-fiction?’
I answered, ‘I write non-fiction, I’ve written three books, one was released two weeks ago today.’
Morse’s eyes opened up. He said, ‘What do you write about?’
The glory of the sun shone on our conversation when I responded, ‘I write about society’s love of money, spirituality and the Gods.’
Morse seemed startled, his head jerked back when he retorted, ‘The Gods, a lot of people would have something to say about that.’
I followed the flow of our conversation and added, ‘What are your thoughts, Morse?
Are you a believer?’
Morse looked around before saying, ‘I don’t know. I’m the wrong person to ask.’
I was slightly at odds with his stance, I continued, ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you, Morse?’
He said, ‘I don’t mind at all, I’m 79 years old. What makes you ask that?’
I answered, ‘Well, as a writer of your mature age, you would have thought your mind is made up, but you’re a tree.’
Surprised, Morse interjected, ‘I’m a tree?’
I said, ‘Yeah, you’re waiting for the wind to whisper in your ears, but you’re not sure if that’s the right message.’
Then, he repeated, ‘A tree.’
In that moment of Morse thinking about the tree, the Rastafarian walked into the park, looking regal with his walking stick and majestic in his yellow head wrap. He approached with his right hand out and offered a handshake.
I returned the gesture and was warmly surprised when the Rastafarian said, ‘Hello, Morse.’
Being surprised, I responded, ‘Oh, do you two know each other?’
Morse replied, ‘Yes, Hon, my next-door neighbour.’
I answered, ‘It’s a small world, I’ve seen Hon in the area for years, but we’ve never had a chat. Pleased to meet you, Hon. I’m John.’
Hon, replied, ‘Yes, it has been years. How do you know, Morse?’
Morse interjected, ‘We’ve just met.’
I said, ‘Please sit down and join the discussion.’
Hon replied, ‘What’s the topic?’
Hon was seated on the edge of the bench, I was in the middle, and Morse was to my left. I answered, ‘We were talking about my book and how Morse is similar to a tree.’
Hon said, ‘What makes you think he’s a tree?’
I responded, ‘Well, we’ve only just met, but he seems undecided for a writer and you need to be sure of what you say.’
Hon was curious when he asked, ‘What do you do, John?’
I said, ‘I was a carpenter sixteen years ago, but now I’m a writer.’
Hon delved deeper when he said, ‘What do you write about?’
I answered, ‘A range of topics interests me, at present I’m writing about the laws of probability. What do you do, Hon?’
Hon replied, ‘I was a diamond cutter.’
I was quite surprised when I said, ‘Really, that’s a good trade, man. How long were you doing that?’
Hon answered, ‘It was the first job I did when I left school. I was doing that for about twenty years until I injured my back. What’s your latest book about, John?
I was about to pull out my book when another gentleman approached the bench on his bicycle. He greeted Hon and Morse, and then I was introduced to Ora. He carried the flow of the conversation when Hon said, ‘Have you just finished working?’
Ora looked tired, stressed, and glad to be going home when he said, ‘It’s Bank Holiday Sunday and I’m working, what a life.’
To be part of the conversation, I interjected, ‘What do you do, mate?’
His reply was disheartening when Ora said, ‘I’m a carpenter.’
I thought and said, ‘Been there, done that, never again.’
Ora answered, ‘Oh, you know the stress of the job.’
I retorted, ‘Stress, it's that profession that has made me ill. But we won’t get into that. Look at the time. I must dash, lads. I’ll see you all another time, bye.’
I left them chatting. I didn’t want to recall the memories of unpaid work. I went home to continue to get to know Lumen.
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