Walid

Listening to my ipod along a busy road, a lady beckoned for my attention.  She was leaning against a railing and wearing a smart-looking grey coat with turquoise-stoned dangling earrings.  A black scarf was wrapped round her head.

Disorientated by the Rolling Stones and the noisy traffic, I found it difficult to understand what she was saying.  Removing my earphones I finally understood that she was asking for money for food.  I gave her a pound.  She asked for two.  I told her that I didn't have anymore but used the opportunity to ask my question.  She said she didn't have one but gave me her first name and told me it was the final word in Muslim prayer.  She asked if I had ever seen a Muslim in prayer.  I replied that I wasn't sure I had.  She demonstrated by chanting and waving her finger.  She repeated her name three times.  I didn't tell her that this was of little use to me.

In a more suburban part of London, I sit in a quiet cafe.  'Internet' is scrawled in chalk on a blackboard outside.  There are four croissants on a plate and a selection of liquors behind the bar.  The proprietor is an elderly gentleman with a bald head, a grey moustache and wire-rimmed spectacles.  Bringing over my coffee, he apologises for his shaking hands.  He comments on the beautiful weather and goes outside with an espresso and a Marlborough Light.  His accent is Lebanese.  As I pay, I ask my question a second time today.  He looks suspicious.  'What do you want to do with it?' he asks.  Before I can explain he has given his answer and spelt it.  I say thank you.  He says it is his pleasure and retreats to a computer at the back of the shop.  I collect my bag and open the door.  He tells me that his house is leaking.  We agree that we hope the Spring weather lasts.