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someone left me aquiver except with anger or disappointment. Yet, it’s impossible not to smile and sing along. It doesn’t surprise me that Elvis songs are still played at just about every wedding reception even thirty years after his death. Elvis was put on this earth to make it better for all of us. I’m not fanatical. I don’t own a pair of sparkly gold sunglasses, just the CD,
Elvis’ 30 #1 Hits
. Someone bought it for me for Christmas, a few years back, and I played it all Boxing Day, although I think that was the last time I played it.
    The music stops abruptly. The busker is being movedon. Some are supported by London Underground; certain areas of some platforms have been declared official busking sites. I imagine you have to apply to perform there; clearly the Elvis guy hasn’t.
    As I mount the second escalator I can see an official insisting that the busker pack up and move on. I notice that the guy has a guitar which surprises me. He really is good; I’d assumed he was singing along to a beatbox. It’s a shame he’s been made to move. He was only brightening commuters’ day.
    I flash a sympathetic half-grin/half-shrug at him as I pass and comment, ‘Really cool, thanks,’ and flick a pound coin into his open guitar case. The official stares at me and mutters that busking is illegal. I flash him a look that tells him I don’t care.
    The tube arrives within a remarkable three minutes and, more surprising still, there are empty seats. I fling myself into one and rummage in my bag for my novel. Someone sits next to me. This is not a good sign. Only nutters choose to huddle up when there’s plenty of space. I steadfastly refuse to look up.
    ‘Thanks for your support,’ says the nutter.
    I take a sneaky glance around the carriage to see if he might be talking to anyone else. This frail hope disappears when I see that there isn’t anyone else at this end of the carriage. Bad news on two counts. First, the nutter must be addressing me and, second, there’s no one to help me if the situation turns nasty. I’m not a pessimist but if a complete stranger talks to you on the tube the chances are the situation is going to turn nasty. I didn’t always understand this urban law. When I arrived from Oz Iwould innocently insist on commenting ‘g’day’ to complete strangers. I noticed that they always changed seats or got off at the next stop. It didn’t take me long to realize that speaking to strangers on tubes wasn’t so much considered a break in etiquette, more like a certifiable act.
    ‘I feel I owe you a quid, though. You didn’t really get chance to listen. Hardly what you’d call value for money.’
    I look up and recognize the guitar case before I recognize the busker, to whom I hadn’t given much more than a cursory grin.
    ‘That’s OK,’ I reply cautiously. I’m not prepared to be overly friendly. Just because he’s a busker doesn’t exempt him from being mad. In fact, I’d have thought that anyone who was trying to make a living off the charity and generosity of Londoners probably does have a screw loose.
    The busker grins and holds out his hand, ‘Stevie Jones, pleased to meet you.’
    I decide it would be rude not to shake his hand at exactly the same time that I decide Stevie Jones has the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. His eyes aren’t bad either. The smile breaks across his face creating a similar sensation to that of cracking an egg in a frying pan. I love that moment. The moment when the frail shell snaps under the pressure of my fingers and the egg metamorphoses into something that promises imminent yumminess. It’s a moment of change, expectancy and release. Stevie Jones’s smile is the same.
    ‘Laura Ingalls,’ I reply. Fireworks explode in my knickers. Wey-hey, sexual attraction. Undeniable. I am completely shocked by this. I am, after all, wearing prosaicgrey/white cotton numbers that were not designed to entertain flutters of any description. More, I’d