But the vantage point, which afforded me a type of permit that enables its holder to actually taste the city's evening atmosphere, was not so intimate that it became embarrassing. Upbeat young men and women would cycle or skate by, confidently oblivious to my small station on the old cast iron lamppost. Zachariah Road Park is quite an attractive and suitable place for such pursuits, as it's in a languid spot where you might even feel the need to breathe with more thought, so as to inhale more of the air. Zach's Park ranges over a very faint slope among tall, bushy trees and cute hut-like buildings that still elude any attempts to be tagged with a purpose. What an existence they lead as quiet asides, indistinguishable (to the entrepreneurs) from any other flimflam!
On my arrival to the bubbling hush at about 8:00 p.m., the late spring sky was a dark, hazy pink, or at least it was that way in my field of vision. Rain had evidently fallen recently, for its fresh aroma and lilac-coloured droplets could still be detected fairly easily. Dorrie, a girl who worked in an orthodontic clinic and was familiar to me, warily flicked the pages of a magazine whilst sat on one of the metal benches; elsewhere, there were a few people in bright jackets milling around on the grass. Suddenly, Dorrie left and the wind picked up momentarily, and I noticed how the distant windows twinkled in blue-grey. Fond recollections of her presence leapt up within me - since that first impression a year ago as the most pretend-confounded of two girls arguing playfully about the Congress of Vienna, to her cosy, graceful gait in a speckled grey top.
"...Pity they only learned of the news t' - " said a middle-aged man into his surprised mobile. Opting to ignore his surroundings, the soft-spoken fellow strove on in his funny black suit, and then I saw with some interest that on his humble, rounded shoulders was a backpack. Eventually, the weathered patch, which was sewn onto the top flap of the bag, registered itself in my memory as the flag of Kiribati. "That's a falsehood," he listened for a few seconds, "Really? You can tell them to leave the Stefano DiMera poster where it is though... No." In a flurry of events, the viridian-tinted peace got disrupted. High-spirited youths, five in all, brushed past the man talking to his phone who was now approaching me from the left. They only half-heartedly cleared a way for him, and as he performed a rather drastic action of the torso in order to avoid the boy nearest him, he stared ahead intently, despite then slipping slightly on the edge of the pavement. Last thing I saw before getting up for a drink was his face remaining focussed.
I returned swiftly and perched on the roof of a decaying shed for an early morning scene on the other side of the world, where tawny leaves covered the surface of a tiny stone landing. Seemingly, the landing was trying to usher you down into the water or one of the pair of wooden canoes moored there. Maybe this wasn't such a great method of passing time. A bearded man in a white T-shirt manifested himself in front of me, followed by his daughter, who was roughly thirteen and wore glasses. Neither of them was unknown to me - in fact, the man's wife was romancing somebody at her bureau, but he hadn't cottoned on yet - so it was with some sadness that I experienced the proceedings. Tril, the girl, was helping her father pack, and their bikes were now leaning against a fence and glinting in the cool, orangey sunshine.
"Have you remembered the plastic box?" asked the man, who was tying some kind of cord.
"Of course, I'm not stupid you know!" she replied, unscathed.
"Normally the rambutan aeroplanes are the first to go; did you clean your tyres?"
"Yes."
The girl sighed dramatically before disappearing briefly. Ring-doves twittered from a region behind me, and I managed to spot a possible Olympic hopeful running in dappled shadow along the road at the far right.
"Will there be any biplanes there, dad?"
"I'd say there would be many," he chuckled with his lips closed, "There will also be several spitfires, I expect."
"Can you buy me my comic from the hypermart?" she watched him nod from his crouching posture, "What are the Red Arrows like?"
"Ah, some of the stunts they can pull off are simply awesome," his features lit up, "they're a team of pilots who fly formation and - well, you've seen them on the TV, haven't you? Trails of smoke..." I felt that she was going to pains to maintain interest, and hoped for the man to ease her conflicts by adding something like, "You'll love them". Soon enough, he creaked upwards and espoused, "You wouldn't believe how close they're able to get to each other!"
"Woah," she paused, gazing at the ground, "Do you know where mum's gone on holiday? Dad?"
"She's very secretive, I have no idea." After he had finished choosing his words so carefully, it seemed to dawn on Tril that her remarks always mistake her for a clown. For dampening the friendliness of their companionship today, her voice couldn't again be heard until she had faith in it. My eyes wandered over the canoes and their crackling pale blue paint, glowing against the ripples and the murky green depths. The smell of leaves mixed with a buzzing, wet fragrance.
"Before she went, I saw a brochure in her room, and it had a picture of the flag of Kiribati on it, y'know, the nice one, with the frigate bird flying over the sea."
"Hmm..." he scratched his head and put a cream-coloured hat on. I lost all my senses for forty seconds, but upon regaining consciousness, all that was there was the girl's bike, deserted steadfastly in the same position. My vantage points should have been kicked away.