After the reading there were deals to be cut with two cab drivers. A man above a latenight dancefloor in Holborn mistakes Mother for a goldfinch (he couldn't eat a whole one) - we had to leave him in the Red Emporium. The last tube missed, down the silver travelator then back up to find the night bus. I needed to find bus-stop Z on New Oxford Street. Someone needed to piss - from the doorway to the gutter like a black snake unfurled eating its own skullcap. Hailed a cab to take me to portal Z - the driver is from Ilford so I offer him half the forty pound fare to take me there (half my fee for reading). The deal can't be struck - the poly thene promise of the city reclings on Oxford Street. The bus takes 83 minutes through the District route, through the East End brick orchards where latenight barrowboys are in a cocaine snow shake. Out at Ilford the latenight wind cuts April keen & cruel. The man in the private hire hut is asleep at the phone desk, folded into himself like...
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