Friday Afternoon Argument

Outside my office window (which is open but high up so I can't see out) I imagine the scene - a queue of cars on the oneway system wait while some of them try to turn into Netto's and others want to pass by but can't, a bit of revving and a bit of honking, occassional snatches of music float up (and sometimes the all encompassing shake of a loud bassline), the sun is shining on the streets of Peckham, the market will be in full flow, a man will be operating the stinky rubbish grinder that sits on the corner of Choumert Road and Alpha Street, some men will be congregating outside Abbey's cafe. Suddenly raised voices, urgent, arguing but in a foreign language that I don't recognise, African of some sort, low and resonant but loud. The argument gathers steam, more people join in. It sounds like a gaggle of angry turkey's gobbling. It gets louder, more male. And then it starts to move along the street away from earshot. It fades into the distance but remains a quiet rumbling. A police siren. And then the honking and reggae on the radio come back into the fore-hearing.