Funeral's Eve

I've come to London to attend a funeral. It is Wednesday evening and the city is rumbling in its usual way. It's stranger than I expected to be here, to be visiting for him without him. This place never felt like home, but a root of my family tree is undeniably here, or was, or is.

For old times sake I take the tube to London Bridge in search of an appetite, but find only an M&S sandwich. Doubling back to Blackfriars my clogs clatter noisily against the metal treads of the steps.

My funeral coat smells strongly of damp. It's been a while since anyone died. The oil stained pockets almost the only indication that this coat has ever been anything other than respectable, I fiddle with the screw which once failed to hold my moped together - almost.

It's half past Nunhead. I find this city confusing, too loud, too much, two friends board and fill the doorway with chattering laughter. My brain strains to hear familiar place names, Beckenham will do - I think we came here to buy a tyre once.

In my head I try to think of a satisfactory conclusion to the eulogy in my rucksack, outside the window buses rest under the bright lights of a depot. Shortlands is our next stop and on the platform a man enquires "Is this the way to Amerillo", I wouldn't know, I've never been this way before, but Blyth Road is marked with the familiar green signs of the Borough of Bromley. Not home, but here.