the window, sashed, allows the cool breath of the river & a stream of pale sunlight to spill through. blonde on blonde plays. a young man passes below. he has a rucksack sat low on his back, a peaked cap, reversed, a filling beard. there is a skateboard clutched between his arm & cottoned ribs. he peers into the screen of his phone. i’ve seen him of late from this first floor window, but have yet to witness any skating. en passant, this carrying around, this non-riding is something of a millennial phenomenon with the young. occasionally though, perhaps at the kerb, or for no apparent reason, they throw down their board with a casual & carefree clatter & trap it beneath a sneakered foot, only to (& this is the trick of it!) flip it back up, with a smart stamp of rubber sole on the closer end &, with a slack snatch at the nose as it rises, the skateboard is returned neatly beneath the arm & blithe perambulation continues.