A rhythmic thumping woke me up and I was unsure where I was'�. I got up, went to the window on the landing and levered open the blinds.
Saigon'�Shit'�! I thought.
A helicopter circled'�.
It was early and empty and I could sense the gathering storm of humanity. A ballerina with deformed feet waddled past; a young man sifted the contents of a bin and drank what looked like gravy from a chip tray.
''�Soho'�Shit!' I said aloud. My adrenaline was subsiding and I started to shiver.

'You'll be much better suited to the hustle and Darcey Bussell of the big Walter Mitty.': who had said that to me?
I looked up at the cobwebs on the ceiling: my attention drawn by an industrious spider. I wondered whether spiders had any conscious thought. Why do they build webs; do they copy their parents? Do they think: 'Every time I make a web, food appears as if by magic.'? I wonder why I am wasting my time thinking such things and try to think of something else.
The stairs came up to the landing from the street and disappeared into the wall just past the door of my flat. The door to the street was reinforced and the letterbox was sealed due to a firebomb threat from a 'well known local psychopath' some years earlier.
I start singing:

'This is the end'�
beautiful friend'

I stubbed my toe aa I remembered it was my brother Andy who had made the strange comment about me being more suited to the hustle and Darcy Bussell of the big Walter Mitty. The pain eased and I continued singing:

'This is the end'�
My only friend, the end'�
Of our elaborate plans, the end'�'

I wanted to think of something else to sing, but couldn't,

'This is the end'�
My only friend, the end'�
I'll never look into your eyes'�again.'

I had not spoken to my brother since he had gone to live in California. My mother had mentioned in a letter that Andy was training to be a horse whisperer, of all things. I had written back, in an attempt at humour I knew would be taken as impertinence: 'What the hell is a Hoarse whisperer? Are there lozenges he can suck for such a complaint?'
My brother and I usually made up with each other, through gritted teeth, for birthdays and at Christmas, but fell out for the rest of the year; for the last two years, we had not even done that. I had not had any contact with him until the week before when I had received a letter, written by his assistant. It coldly stated that Andy Pinogosta would be visiting from California to do a demonstration of horsemanship. It went on to say that his schedule was so full that he could only stay in the UK for a short period, so he was sending tickets, hoping to meet all his family and friends during the demo.
He had sent six tickets so I could bring some friends. No doubt, he would be assuming I would turn up with five people who I would pretend were my friends because I could not find that many: maybe he was unaware 'd been sent the tickets.
Who needed a demonstration of horsemanship these days, in a city? It all sounded like a lot of effort for very little reward. I considered feigning an illness or just ignoring the letter.
I had half-heartedly asked several work mates, who were in the Odd Abattoir for a drink, if they'd had wanted tickets but it had been raining on and off all day so no one had stayed long.
'Horses don't have much pulling power'. Someone had said.
'Do you have any Madonna tickets? She has pulling power.'
'Horses sound very appealing to me: compared to Madonna, but then so would eating goats gonads boiled in bleach!'
Then a noisy argument broke out over Madonna, which was ridiculous yet entertaining. Someone had put Madonna on the jukebox, which the Australian barmaid, Dorrie had then switched off, restoring order with silence.
'There we are guys'�Madonna unplugged,' she had said coolly, putting a pound coin on the table and taking drink orders.

I got out of the shower and got dressed, trying to think of another song to sing. The strong coffee put me on edge; I drank it, then made another. I went to the window on the landing and peered out; it was getting busier. Another helicopter came to relieve the first one'�. Then I noticed Pete, down below, pacing back and forth; listening to his Walkman. Pete had an invisible quality to him despite the fact that he was the only person in those parts dressed as a cowboy.
I switched on my handset and listened through my ear piece, waiting for a job that would take me in the direction I wanted to go: (silence)'�crackling, then the gravely pilot's voice of the controller asking for locations of riders and drivers and giving job details.
''�Anybody near the office for a NW5?'
I called my number over the radio as I walked out into the street past Pete, who was obliviously singing tunelessly about losing his dog, or horse, or wife, and climbed up the stairs to the courier office.
'Cobra One-One'�' I turned off my radio and continued talking to the back of the controller'�
'Hi Martin One-One'�its this letter here, for NW5' The controller waved me away and carried on calling jobs then tapped on the window and called, 'Four-Two, Four-Two, Four-Two, Cobra Four-Two'�'�
I checked my pigeonhole for post but it was too early. 'Catch you later boss!'
'Yeah'�Give Cobra Four-Two a nudge will you, he's in a western world of his own down there. He's got a job on board that's growing a beard.'
'Roger, Rodge!' I shouted, too loudly for morning, as I ran down the stairs.
Outside, Pete was keeping an eye on his elderly, grey motorcycle, which seemed to creak under the weight of packages of different shapes and sizes.
I always felt like making a joke but never did: something like saying, 'Get off your horse and drink your milk.'
'All right Four-Two?' I said to him.
Pete acknowledged silently as he took out an earpiece.
'Roger's trying to get hold of you, mate.'
'Cheers, One-One,' said Pete, as he realised he was meant to be doing something else. He seemed as grey and loaded down as his bike.
'Why don't you listen to some Spice Girls Four-Two? Cheer you up a bit.'
Pete grunted something as he put his helmet on.
I went inside and up the stairs of my flat singing: 'I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want...' I stood in the hallway, and took my time purposefully: I pre-visualised a safe day ahead. I unlocked my bike from the radiator; carried it down stairs and started the days pedalling.

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