A Sunday in South London

2nd February, 2025

It was a beautiful, sunny day in Camberwell on Sunday 2^nd of February, 2025. Clothes and sheets hung out to dry from balconies on the tower block across the way, and from time to time an Overground train sped by.

Messalina sat on our balcony’s ledge, light shining on her soft coat, meowing threats at pigeons that deigned to fly too close. The shadow of a large, bare tree played against one of the tower block’s sides. I took the tree's picture and searched Google using its “lens” feature, to see if it could identify its type. All Google could find were examples of the brand-new condos erected behind the tree.

I have two works in progress – horror novels – and if I were a sensible writer, I’d have worked on them on that beautiful Sunday, or put my mind to writing a new short story or drafting my latest Substack newsletter.

Instead, I chose to do a deep clean of the bedroom. First, I took everything underneath and around the bed out of the room and lined them up in the corridor. Then I wiped surfaces, swept dust balls, vacuumed corners and finally mopped the whole floor.

Once finished, I opened windows across the flat and lay on the bare mattress, my knees pressed to my chest, my lower back stretched loose.

I’m currently cat sitting little Messalina for five months in South London, on behalf of her father, a Paduan painter. When I moved into his flat, on a wet and dreary 1^st of January, he asked me if I’d like the bench press and free weights stored in his studio room placed elsewhere in the flat. I thanked him for the offer but said that I’d prefer to join a local gym, which I did the following day.

Pure Gym, however, turned out to be busy whenever I visited, and the idea grew that maybe – just maybe – I could move the exercise stuff into the bedroom and work out from there.

The flat’s on the first floor of a medium height tower block. It has a balcony, which Messalina has access to, and where her litter box is kept. It's not a beautiful garden, which all cats should ideally frolic in, but at least she gets a little fresh air and can watch the comings and goings of pigeons, rooks, squirrels and humans.

Whenever I return home at night, I’m terrified of finding out that she jumped off the balcony, broke a paw, got eaten by a fox, or got lost. I put my key in the lock, open the door, and then breathe a sigh of relief when she greets me.

I left the flat on that Sunday at 2:05 pm. A friend who I hadn’t seen for two years invited me for a late lunch at his flat, in another part of South London.

‘Don’t eat beforehand!’ he warned me over the phone.

In the past, I’d have used the traveling hour to listen to music. This time, however, I paid attention to the people riding the bus, the couples soaking up sunrays on the sidewalks, and the tree shadows cast against the buildings that line up the northern side of the Old Kent Road.

In my backpack, two offerings: a tub of strawberry cheesecake ice cream and apple pear juice.

I first met T. 6 years ago, when we worked at the same medical charity. The last time I’d visited his home, before the pandemic, he shaved my head.

His flat was spacious and bright. I was happy for him; nothing worse in London than a home that doesn’t get enough sunlight.

In one corner of the living room lay his beloved Morin Khuur, which he sometimes films himself playing and posts on Instagram. While the vegetable curry simmered, he placed crackers, hummus and a selection of teas on the dining table. We opted for the one sent by his sister in Mongolia, which opens like a flower in boiled water.

We stretched out on his sofa after dinner and shared life stories. Suddenly, the ceiling light started to flicker.

‘It’s the ghost that followed me from America,’ T. explained matter-of-factly. ‘We made love one night while I was high, and he’s been with me ever since.’

The light flickered back as if in agreement.

‘You have a guardian angel,’ I said.

‘He can be a nuisance sometimes. He gets in my way. He doesn’t want to see me in another relationship. You’re jealous of me, aren’t you, darling?’

The weaved bamboo around the lightbulb was like a giant eyelid, or a portal to another dimension, and the light a sentient pupil.

‘I’ll walk you to the bus stop,’ T. said once I had my winter coat on.

He only wore a light vest, cotton slacks and trainers. He lit up a cigarette.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ I asked him.

‘Honey, I come from Mongolia,’ he smiled through the smoke.

On the high street, he pointed at a Wetherspoons, The Surrey Docks.

‘When there’s a game, this pub gets filled with hot guys. One of them once shouted: What you looking at, you pooooofter,’ T. laughed.

We parted with a hug by the bus shelter’s empty illuminated ad panel. The M bus took its time. The lit panel kept me company, but never flickered.