If you look out for red items, you will see a lot of red. More generally, we have a tendency to see what we go looking for, guided by our interests, opinions and dispositions. Might the same be true in relation to small potential story-prompts?
One day, waiting to cross Euston Road, I was near to a tall, smartly-dressed man, perhaps North African. From behind me, I heard that he was being accosted in some way. A pink-faced man was becoming agitated. He had an Irish accent and a hat with the brim turned up at the front. ‘You won’t give me a cigarette: I can tell you’ve got money, you could afford it!’ The smart man had asked him to go away but he persisted, thrusting his face nearer: ‘You can’t take it with you, you tight-fisted bastard! You’ll die and I’ll spit on your grave for your meanness!’ The smart man tried to push him away, which was the cue he wanted. Up came the fists, ‘Come on then! Come on then!’ A woman called to the smart man to leave it, to walk away, as he did, when the traffic lights changed and we could cross. What might have happened next? How did this unpleasantness affect the smart man’s morning? Did he mention it to other people?
In Duke Street, heading for Woburn Walk, a pretty little patch of conserved historic buildings, I passed some nondescript doors that had never previously shown any sign of life. One opened, and out came a group of young men, all of similar age and appearance, with military bearing, short haircuts, and perhaps Polynesian ethnicity, and wearing identical jackets. Three, five, nine, fifteen emerged from the seemingly tiny interior. The number increased: twenty, thirty, I stopped counting when it was more than fifty. Off they filed in a neat crocodile, with a cheery sense of purpose. How would they be spending the day? What was their story?
Another day, in the afternoon towards dusk, I was walking along a backstreet in Westminster, which was largely deserted, when my attention was drawn to two men wearing dark suits, engaged in earnest conversation. One was tall, the other short. As I got nearer, they resolved themselves into Conservative politicians Michael Heseltine, who was looking anxious, and Kenneth Clarke, who was being reassuring. ‘Just give it a few weeks…’ he was saying, untroubled by my proximity. Meanwhile as I passed on my way Michael Heseltine seemed to be evaluating whether he knew me and if so, whether I was friend or foe.
Walking along the busy pavement of Tavistock Place, having collected a passport from the visa agency, I was surrounded by people walking in the same direction, at the same speed. Just in front of me marched a strong-shouldered, middle-aged man in a navy suit. He was not carrying anything. At a certain doorway a man in a grey suit emerged suddenly, just as the man in the navy suit reached that point. The man in the grey suit carried a briefcase in his left hand. He walked beside and in step with the navy-suited man. They ignored each other completely, staring straight ahead. I was right behind, and saw in one sharp movement, the briefcase pass from the grey-suit’s left hand into the navy-suit’s right hand. The grey-suit man immediately disappeared into another doorway. My interest was aroused, to say the least. Does this really still happen in this digital age? I wanted to see the navy-suit man’s face, and hurried to overtake him before crossing the road into Bedford Way. That was an effort because he was walking quickly. He was Middle Eastern, with a trimmed moustache and heavy glasses. He saw that I had overtaken him and deliberately looked at him. He missed his pace for a second, and displayed two expressions in quick succession. Guilty, caught in the act, followed by a furious Basilisk death-glare. I went on my way by a roundabout route, worried that if he thought I was an agent for the other side, someone might be coming after me.