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I was walking back from the pub to the tube after a couple of pints with friends. Enjoying the very cold winter air from inside my snug and cosy outer wear.

The young man was sprawled onto the bench face down. His forehead was resting on the bench arm, keeping his face above the pool of vomit on its seat. As I looked at him he produced another cough spit drool in a hopeless kind of way.

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I asked. He was in his shirtsleeves, no jacket.

‘No, ‘m ok.’

He didn’t sound as out of it as I’d feared.

‘It’s a bit cold for sitting about in. I don’t think you should stay here too long.’

He hoiked his head up from the bench arm to look me in the face.

‘You’re beautiful, you know that?’

(I like to think his eyes focussed but if I’m honest they probably didn’t.)

‘Thanks. Are you going to be able to get home?’

‘Yes, s’only the 168.’

Since we were indeed on the road the 168 bus goes along, I decided this demonstrated both the mental and physical potential to secure his safe passage home.

‘Okay then, take care. Don’t get too cold.’

I felt considerably more sober as I walked off again. Not because I was worried, just as a matter of comparison.

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I’m always a bit inquisitive about my fellow passengers, but there was something about these two that drew my close attention. They were both older middle aged women and they were sharing a newspaper to read. The way they moved was intimate and easy.

I finished eating my salad and reached across the aisle to put the packet in the bin.

‘Oh,’ the one by the window exclaimed, ‘I never knew there was a bin there.’

I smiled and nodded but couldn’t quite find a way to keep the conversation going.

A bit later they were faffing with their empty takeaway coffee cups.

‘Would you like me to put them in the bin for you?’ I asked.

‘Oh, would you?’ it was the same one who’d spoken before.

‘No problem.’ There still wasn’t really an opening to chat.

I was working on my laptop but I looked at them as they read their paper. The line of their noses was similar. I thought they must be sisters. One of them had grey hair but the other’s was blonde, probably dyed. They both had wedding rings on and they laughed as they fussed with paper, dividing it into parts so they could read different bits at the same time.

I started putting my laptop away as we got close to my station. They weren’t getting off and the talking one watched me as I folded it up and put it into its case.

‘Have you been to London for work then?’ she asked. Her tone suggested a journey of epic scale.

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I’m just on my way home now.’

She looked impressed with me. I smiled at her.

‘Have been down for the day?’

‘Oh yes. We’re twins and we go down sometimes to the Twins Institute for research.’

Twins. Of course. The way they moved, close to each other, was as though they were still sharing an invisible womb.

‘That must be interesting.’

‘Oh, it is. We’ve learned about all sorts of things we never would have otherwise.’

We were at my station. I had to go. But oh, I wanted to stay and find out more.

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I was walking through the cemetery on an autumn afternoon. It wasn’t dark yet but under the avenue of massive trees there isn’t much light gets through so it’s always a kind of twilight.

I thought the man was sitting in a gravestone when I first saw him. It was one that’s a kind of over ground coffin and for a moment I thought he was sitting in it like a bath tub. This made me glance again but as it turned out he was standing up behind it. He was a round bulldog type man with a small black knitted hat on. It went well with his donkey jacket. The bristles on his chin and round the side of his head were grey.

Because I looked again he caught my eye. I was slightly nervous, the cemetery is used for a variety of purposes by a variety of ne’er-do-wells. This man spoke to me reassuringly.

‘I’m just spotting for t’owl,’ he explained.

‘The owl?’

‘Aye, it comes down on this tree but them wit’ dogs scared it off again.’

‘Does it?’ I was genuinely interested and stopped and stepped off the path. ‘I live just across the road and I hear them at night sometimes.’

‘Do yer?’

‘Yeh, they’re really loud.’

We stood for a bit in silence looking up at the tree. The owl didn’t come.

My feet were getting cold and I’d got a feeling I might be spoiling his afternoon’s peace.

‘I’d best go,’ I said.

‘Aye it ha’n’t come back yet.’

‘I’ll probably come and look another time.’

We nodded at each other and I left to go home, looking over my shoulder as I walked down the path.

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We didn’t much fancy camping in October on the Outer Hebrides. Our B&B had a note on the door from the proprietor, inviting us to come in, make ourselves at home and to give him a ring on the scrawled mobile number if we needed anything. He was just five minutes away, it said.

It was an unexpected treat to have a house to ourselves. Upstairs there were two guest bedrooms; we put our bags in the one that wasn’t locked. Downstairs, in the visitors lounge, I found the visitors book:

‘Mr and Mrs Strachan not only show the attention to detail but, most importantly to the single traveller, the truly hospitable attitude that made me feel completely at home.’

‘On arrival Mrs Strachan took me on an evening tour of the island by car, meaning I saw so much more than I could have hoped to do alone.’

‘After a week of camping and backpacking it was so lovely to be welcomed into Mr and Mrs Strachan’s beautiful home with possibly the most comfortable bed I’ve ever known. And so good to speak to someone who has actually made the move to live the island dream.’

Mr and Mrs Strachan come out of it rather well, as is only appropriate in their own guest book, but the formality was a little strange. Perhaps their move to the island came after a long career in something terribly formal?

But a few pages later, things changed:

‘Donald and Liz not only give the perfect welcome but also provide the perfect breakfast!’

‘We thoroughly enjoyed our evening of song with Don and his guitar. A great host and a great time was had by all.’

An evening of song with a guitar and anyone is my idea of hell on earth. We legged it to a local hostelry before our marvellous musical host returned.

Where, it turned out, there was a session in progress. Two accordionists – one the spitting image of Prince Charles only with completely white hair, the other ‘fit youth’ personified, with a disarmingly wide smile – and a beardy fellow with a penny whistle that tucked nicely between the gaps in his teeth. Luckily, I like accordion music. There tends to be less of the dreadful expectation to ‘join in the chorus’ with an accordion player.

We ate our pub grub without having to talk much, other than to speculate as to whether the comatose bloke in the corner would be better off in the recovery position. But finally, the inevitable happened. The musicians took a break, Penny Whistle went to the bar, Prince Charles chatted to another old fella and the young god of the accordion turned in our direction.

‘Where are youse from?’

‘Sheffield.’

‘Sheffield is it? Come on and sit up here with us.’

‘No, we’re just off, actually.’

‘Ah no, there’s a few tunes yet. Come and join us.’

Sitting with the musicians might be preferable to giving mouth to mouth to the passed out guy, but next they’d be wanting us to join in, and surely we could get away without doing either.

‘Really, we’ve got to go. We’re going back to our B&B.’

‘Aye, your B&B. Which one’s that?’

‘Enterprise.’

‘Och, here’s your landlord. He’ll no mind you staying.’ And he turned to Penny Whistle at the bar.

‘Don,’ he said ‘These are yours.’

The penny whistle was just a disguise. And the beard. This guy was hairier than I’d pictured the hospitable Mr Strachan. A lot hairier. And with fewer teeth.

Introductions all round and we agreed what time we wanted breakfast. Once again we announced our intention for leaving.

‘I’ll be along soon,’ says Hairy Don, ‘I’m not staying here long myself.’

‘So, we’ll just leave the door then?’ we city dwellers check.

‘Oh yes, the front door’s never locked.’

‘Is it just you and your wife?’ I asked, wondering about the other locked guest room.

‘No, she’s gone. She’ll not be back.’

Tonight? I wondered. For breakfast? Or ever? It didn’t seem polite to ask that night, nor over breakfast either.

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The darker their eyes the more intelligent they are

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The darker their eyes the more intelligent they are

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I was with my friend and her dog, Maddy, in the pub. We’d been for a walk to admire the colour in the trees, were glad now of the lit fire. The stranger was a dog person so initially, of course, she was talking to the four legged amongst us.

‘Hello, hello. You are lovely aren’t you? What a good girl. Yes, what a good girl.’

It occurred to me it would be quite nice if humans talked to each other this positively more often. I am a lovely, good girl too. Feel free to tell me as often as you like, world. Although, I’m not sure whether you need rub my head and fondle my ears while you do it.

‘She’s not pure staffy is she?’ the dog lady said, and she and my friend began to discuss cross breeds and other dog stuff.

I was only half tuned in. The lady prepared to take her leave of Maddy.

‘Yes, you are a good girl. You’re a clever, clever girl, aren’t you?’

‘She is clever,’ my friend said, proud, as mother would be.

‘Oh yes, you can tell. The darker their eyes are the more intelligent they are.’

That made me laugh out loud. All six brown eyes looked at me, surprised.

‘I hope that’s not true for humans,’ I said, by way of qualification.

The dog lady glanced at me briefly.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘there’s dark blue eyes.’ Then she looked again, properly. I opened my eyes slightly wider.

‘Oh yes,’ she said and laughed too. ‘Yours are quite pale aren’t they?’

‘They sometimes look transparent.’ I replied. Not a phenomenon I’ve witnessed of course, since I’m inside them looking out. But one I’ve been told about more than once, and seen occasionally in other people.

‘I must be really stupid.’ I said cheerfully, feeling like I’d been given the excuse of all excuses to get out of any future mistakes and problems. ‘Maybe that’s why they go see-through, because there’s no brain inside to block the light.’

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She was a genuine toddler – tiny, and only just on her feet, so that the movement of the train was too much for her and she reverted to crawling for proper exploring. My attention was drawn to her as she moved towards me down the aisle, her dad following carefully behind, but I tried not to stare.

Luckily she was up for eye contact. She looked, and looked away again. Looked back and smiled and waved. She was right next to my seat now. From no more than a metre’s distance, I waved back.

‘Hello,’ I said, ‘are you having fun? Are you having fun on the train?’

She was too young for talking words but smiled delightedly and reached her hand out, straight up towards me; a static pointing star of contact. I reached my hand too and she reached further. Our  fingers touched together, hers so small and soft and warm on mine.

A strange, beautiful intimacy of innocence.

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There was to be a bonfire on the island that night and the hill behind the village, next to the church, was a perfect setting. It had been a beautiful sunny day, we had sunburnt noses, but now that it was getting dark it was cold. The sky was rinsed clear.

The wood was dry and the fire burnt fast and hard from the start. The huddle of people who had gathered were pushed back into a neat line as though someone had taken a piece of string and a pin from the centre of the fire to draw a smooth curve around it. Mostly, they seemed to know each other – it’s a small island – with a few like us who were outsiders, visiting.

I didn’t mind, I was happy enough just hanging about and passing comment occasionally with my husband who was wandering, taking pictures.

The lady who spoke to me moved forward from a more distant group of four. She said she wanted to get warm – ‘they say it’s too hot here, but it’s just nice, isn’t it?’ We admired the perfectly full moon that was rising beyond the sea’s horizon. A June moon, big and round and brightly pinky orange so that it looked like it was reflecting the flames of the bonfire.

She was one of those people who can chat easily to anyone. She said they’d come from Devon. Devon to the Inner Hebrides. ‘That is a long way,’ we agreed. She was with her husband and said it was their fourth time here.

‘Fourth time on Coll?’

‘Yes, we’ve only been to Coll. I keep thinking we should go to the other islands but then we like it so much here it’s hard to go anywhere else.’

‘It is lovely here isn’t it?’

‘Have you been to others?’

I said yes, I’d been to quite a few of them and until now Barra was my favourite.

‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘Everyone says I should to go to Barra.’

‘You should go to Barra.’ I said, because I agreed with everyone.

We discussed the ferry ramifications – the one on Thursday goes on from Coll and Tiree to Barra but then the cottages on Barra are all hired Saturday to Saturday so where do you stay? I conceded that camping, as we were, does make it all a lot easier for practical arrangements.

‘Camping?’ she was a bit surprised. ‘Well, I suppose that’s easier in a way but when you get old, like me, no, you can’t face camping anymore.’ She laughed. ‘I’m sure there’s an answer to the problem but I’m absolutely certain that camping isn’t it.’

I laughed with her; she was funny.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘Coll is really lovely. I think it might be my new favourite.’

Her husband drifted up from the cold place to collect her and I wandered off to find mine. The fire burned a bit lower and the neat curved line disintegrated in to a general huddle.

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Outside the city centre building where I was working, was a small garden, well used on sunny days. By lunch time there’d be people sitting on the grass and the benches, workers or the down-and-out, with friends or alone, enjoying the chance to step aside from the main road.

Two days in a row I found myself on a bench with a bearded man. The first one looked like Father Christmas dressed for a business meeting; the other was more of an urban pirate, dark and unkempt.

Father Christmas joined me on the bench I’d got to myself; it was me that sat down next to the pirate. Benches are for sharing; it’s the fulfilment of their potential.

On each occasion eye contact and simple gestures effected the negotiation for sitting down. Both times we then sat in silence for some minutes before glancing sideways, making contact and sharing identical conversations:

‘Isn’t it a beautiful day?’

‘Yes. Summer’s finally here.’

And then each time we just quietly sat, faces turned slightly upward to the sky, bodies relaxed and no need for further words.

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I had stopped at the red light behind the three other cyclists who were already waiting. Central London, big buildings all around us, tall trees and a summer’s evening sky above. How lovely to be wearing short sleeves at this time of day.

The other three were together; one man talking animatedly, two women listening. I couldn’t hear the actual content although it seemed to relate to a building on the other side of the road. As he finished he cast a sweeping glance to his companions which fell into eye contact with me at the end.

‘What do you think?’ he asked of them, and as his eye caught mine, me as well.

‘I think it’s a great idea!’ I said. I just wanted to join in with his enthusiasm.

We grinned at each other.

And then the light turned green and we were off again on our separate journeys across the big city.

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We were sitting quietly next to each other on the train north. Well, I’d been quiet-ish; I was munching my way through a crunchy salad lunch. We hadn’t spoken at all but not in an unfriendly way. She was reading her book and I was busy chewing.

This was her station and she stood in her seat by the window to reach into the overhead luggage rack to get her bag.

‘Just mind your head for moment in case it slips,’ she said.

‘Can I give you a hand?’

‘No, no, I’ll be fine, I just…’ the bag’s grey and pink rose design was briefly above me and then it was safely into her hands below my eyeline.

‘That’s a nice bag,’ I said, truthfully, and by way of acknowledgement of her concern for me.

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘It makes me feel like Mary Poppins with her carpet bag.’

We smiled at each other, enjoying the bag.

‘But my umbrella doesn’t work like hers,’ she added.

‘Oh, shame,’ I laughed. Shared cultural references make the world go round. She’d got her balance with her bag and was about to pass by me to the aisle. We were sitting in the extra leg room accessible seats so there was just about space to pass but all the same I offered to stand up.

‘Don’t worry, I think I can get by,’ she said, getting by, ‘without discommoding you.’

Discommoding. That’s a word to go with a carpet bag. It made my day.

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Me and my husband were walking across the main road of the quiet village we’d come away to for the weekend. We’d had a disappointing meal in the local Indian restaurant and were heading for the micro-brewery shop front pub. Above us was a clear dark sky; beautiful, but sharply cold after the warm spring day.

A bearded man was walking a parallel diagonal across the road in the opposite direction.

‘It’s really cold,’ I said to my husband with that faint raised volume of childish outrage.

‘It is, isn’t it,’ said the bearded man, momentarily catching the trajectory of our conversation.

I laughed, and then he laughed, and then my husband laughed.

We were all laughing warmly, briefly united in the cold together.

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I was leaning up against a wall waiting for my son to come out of the shop. We were in a hurry but there was nothing I could do in the moment but wait and watch the passing traffic. Spring was biding its time; the buds on the solitary kerb-side tree stayed shut.

A young woman walked past and caught my eye. I smiled.

She smiled back showing her tobacco stained teeth and gestured towards my face. She was nervous, like a friendly dog that’s used to being hit.

‘I like your nose,’ she said and then pointed towards her own face. ‘I’ve got an eyebrow.’

She meant piercings. I loved the inexplicable clarity of her statements.

We both snickered and I nodded my thanks for the compliment. She hadn’t stopped walking as she spoke and she was turning now to speak to me.

‘Sorry, I’m a bit drunk,’ she giggled and was gone. Leaving me happily waiting with my newly admirable nose.