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to make sure she was still in.
    But she couldn’t keep me indoors all day, waiting for her to make a move. I wouldn’t be trapped like that, I would leave Observatory Mansions, I could follow her later. That day of the week I customarily took off work, and on all my days off I went to the park.
    I walked out, I stood by the entrance of Observatory Mansions, there was once a gate here, now there was just a gap in the brick wall. I stood on the perimeter of our traffic-island home and watched the cars rush around. I thought: everything goes around but nothing comes in. I waited for a break in the traffic. This is a procedure that must always be enacted when leaving a traffic-island home. Sometimes it takes minutes before a break occurs, sometimes only seconds, and when it comes you must run for your life. Yes, traffic mustnever be underestimated when leaving a traffic-island home, the little girl from flat seventeen learnt that. Too late. She was in too much of a hurry, she went over one car and under the next.
    Finding the required pause, I dashed across to the street on the other side. Into an any people place, into the stupidity of the city. A girl chewed gum – I could smell her coming. An adolescent with a skin that betrayed his diet listened and hummed to thumping rhythms as he moved, his gait attempting to acknowledge the music. Young, beautiful horses of girls clopped their high-heel hooves. Men in suits walked alone, contriving to be serious. An old woman paused every six or seven steps for breath. Her mouth worked quicker than her legs – she sucked a boiled sweet. Children ran; they’re the noisiest. They barged into me. I did not complain. I would have liked to complain, but I lacked the guts. I found nothing more terrifying than youth.

Weighing the world .
    I reached the entrance of the park. The park was not an exceptional park. It was a very ordinary, a very uninteresting park, called Tearsham Park Gardens. I stopped outside. There stood the man who worked in front of Tearsham Park Gardens. There stood a man sacred to his duty, providing the public with his everyday service. Bank holidays inclusive. He was never late, he put in long hours, he was loyal to his work. What was his work, what were the tools of his trade? There was only one implement necessary to earn him his meagre living. He stood behind it with great pride. He was, I believe, the only man in the city who worked in this way. He was an original. His object was a set of bathroom scales. For two coins you could afford yourself the pleasure of obtaining your weight in stones and pounds. I stepped on the scales, I stepped off the scales. I gave the man two coins, as I did oncea week, always on this day. The man, I never knew his name, began his employment many years ago. It was an extraordinary enterprise to give up days for, it was extraordinary to put your bathroom scales at people’s disposal. At first he had few customers. This is perhaps not surprising. Bathroom scales are not uncommon objects. But he stuck to his post. His presence was noted. He was viewed with some fondness as an amiable imbecile, his list of clients grew. They were mainly old women, sometimes young men, never alone, who considered the action of weighing themselves amusing. His clients were never young women. I had never heard him speak, the procedure did not require words, I appreciated that.
    The man noted down the weight of each customer in a little notebook. I do not know why. I never asked him why. He recorded the weights of the people of the world, it was his business. Perhaps he had noticed trends in corpulence or slenderness. Perhaps he worked out the average weight of a certain height. Or of age. Or of sex. Perhaps he just wanted to be near people. (Once he misplaced his weight notebook. Confused for two weeks, he left his post vacant. Eventually though, he bought himself a new notebook and returned to work. Lot 644.)
    My weight was recorded, as it was every week in