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that the homeward bound always possess. The footpath is busy and he stands out for two reasons: he is the only stationary figure in the moving crowd and he is reading the newspaper, oblivious, it seems, of that crowd. But he is not. The fact is this is where he likes to read the paper, in public places; a people’s paper, he reasons, should be read among those people — on footpaths, and yes, in the cramped spaces of trains and trams. He likes to observepeople reading the paper that he has helped compose, and, sometimes, observe them reading the very story he has written. For he is as interested in readers as he is in writers and writing. He likes to put a face to readers, to observe their habits and to try to gauge, by the expressions on their faces (a frown, a raised eyebrow of disagreement or surprise, even a smile) what they think of the piece they’re reading. It’s a habit, a ritual even, that harks back to his first days working at the paper when he saw, in stations, pubs and parks, people holding and reading this paper, and he not only felt part of a continuing conversation with the readers of the city but part of a grand project, a communication as vital as breathing. That was when he really felt the power of words and writing. For although there is a part of this journalist that does not regard himself simply as a journalist, he does not, equally, believe in any ivory-tower notions of writing. He has, after all and in his own way, sat at the feet of Mr Hemingway and Mr Fitzgerald and all the others he regards as his teachers. They write (or wrote, as is the sad case for Mr Fitzgerald) to be read. And he has always wanted to be read. And since working for the paper he has discovered the thrill of it, discovered that he likes being read. The sheer speed and immediacy of it. That you can write something in the afternoon and watch people reading it that evening. Furthermore, he likes the confirmation of observing his work being read. And that is why he is standing on the crowded peak-hour footpath reading the paper. At the front of the newspaper offices, where he is most keenly aware of the current of words to which he has contributedflowing through the crowd as the crowd itself flows down to the station, stopped by the traffic lights where they hurriedly read the front page or their favoured columns before moving on. Yes, he likes the confirmation of being read, as much as the thrill of being a part of that continuing exchange of words, which he thinks of as a conversation between people who have never met but who really have — the writing and the reading being the meeting. The newspaper: the meeting place.
    And so he is reading the article he wrote this afternoon in the best place possible. In the world. His name does not appear on the page and nobody passing him on the footpath would know who he is or what he does, let alone that he gives them the words on the pages they all share. But although his name does not appear on the page, he does, of course, have one. George.
    It’s not a name he would have given to himself. When he sees it in print, it doesn’t have the look of a writer’s name. And when he tries to think of the great Georges of literature, he can’t think of any — apart from Mr Orwell, who isn’t really a George but an Eric, but who writes, nonetheless, for the newspapers, and that thought cheers him up.
    Most of all though, as he folds the newspaper into a neat, convenient roll, he is wondering what to do with the next hour. For George is also the art critic for the newspaper. It is now five o’clock and he has an hour to fill before an exhibition opens. There are two exhibitions this week: one for a single artist in a basement, the other a grand affair, a record of all the well-known painters ofthe city to be held in a few days. Two shows, one week. Not unusual. In his brief time in the job he has been quite astounded at the number of painters and artists in the city. And the number of