The man was standing just behind the Hampstead theatre, at the top of a scratchy plot of grass. He caught my eye because, at first, I thought it was Boris Johnson, the bumbly MP for Henley* and part-time PG Wodehouse character.
It wasn’t him, although the combination of straw hair, Bunterish frame and bemused expression made the mistake forgivable, I think.
He was, ever so slowly, performing some Tai Chi. His pudgy arms ghosted around in pondeous arcs, then carefully stacked somethings in front of him. From the waist up he looked like a clubber in slow motion.
After about ten minutes of this, he let his arms fall to his sides one last time and leant back against the wall of the theatre. A few seconds later he’d grappled a quick cigarette into his mouth and was taking his first drag with obvious and deep relish.
Boris would have been proud.
* 2013 footnote: The idea, when I wrote this, that Boris would ever become Mayor of London, let alone be spoken about non-jokingly as a potential Prime Minister would have produced wretchings of laughter.
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