The Melting Man

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I had my feet up on the window sill, watching the pageantry of life outside. It didn't amount to much. The cab driver at the head of the rank was reading the morning edition of the Evening Standard and smoking a cheroot. A handful of early fallen leaves from the plane trees did a little dervish dance in the wind. A coloured gent went by in a big, blue bedspread. He had a beaming 250-watt smile on his large face that could only have come from transcendental meditation or a new and satisfactory addition to his harem. A traffic warden was booking a Mini-Austin for parking on a yellow kerb line. Two girls went by on the far pavement; one had blonde hair and a face that would have made Botticelli's eyes pop, the other carried a transistor set and sucked at an ice-lolly. A porter polished a brass plate. A pigeon bullied a couple of sparrows in the gutter. Two businessmen hurried towards Trafalgar Square, bowlers set, briefcases and umbrellas at the ready.

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