[oblong of light]
the tyne ferry sketches across the river from the north side & sidles, beautifully, up to the south pier with such grace that I wonder if the river, tonight, is not brack, but brandy. the voyage is only some six minutes, but always a delight & well worth the £3.60 return fare. i have taken that trip many dozens of times over the last few years & would recommend it to anyone. the sun has now dipped into the low & heavy blue, bruised cloud & the evening horizon is suffused with pinks & reds. it is colder already. the wind picks up & a dark blue car bearing the legend westoe taxis suddenly delivers a smartly dressed couple onto the cobbles, just short of the customs house theatre. two doors open & close. he wears a gold tie over white pressed short sleeves. blue jeans, creased, & tan, slip-on shoes. his brown head is bare of hair. she, she is tall & resembles a fluted mimosa. she wobbles over the cobbles on peach stilettos, a silver quilted handbag snagged between her naked bronze arm & thinly veiled, silken ribs (like a skateboard!). Blonde curls lash her face & the air around her bubbles. she holds the hem of her pearl dress with flattened palm. the man, a squat fella, makes the pavement with three oafish strides & his tie rises up momentarily in the wind like a yellow noose causing his face to twist. it directs me toward the awning above his head. it reads ‘the billy fury years’ (“the best fury since fury!”). he yawns & tucks his tie into his jeans. she joins him & they disappear, hand in hand, through the oblong of light into the theatre.