Peach in Fed Square, Four Am

It's cold, bitterly cold. The only cars cruising past are taxis, which strangely seem to be refusing most potential patrons. It's late enough that people are just wandering, making up their minds whether to go home or to stay out for another drink.

It's cold and I'm tired enough that it's hard to string together thoughts that aren't incoherent or needlessly bitter. The temperature seems to be able to get beneath by clothes and under my skin. It infects me. A friend once told me that to ignore the biting wind, all you need to do is realise that the wind isn't going through you - it's going around you.

Unfortunately this doesn't really work and so I'm sitting on cafe chair that's tied to the table, and I can hear the sound of people shouting and glass breaking and buses are leaving but I hope they are the wrong buses.

We always hope that they are the wrong buses, foolishly believing that the right one is still to come. After all, don't the chances get better and better, the longer you wait?

Only if you believe the buses will keep coming forever. But if you think they will eventually end, perhaps when the sun pokes up above the cathedrals, then really your chances diminish with each passing bus.

But all this is rather a moot point - useless philosophising while my battery runs out and the cold continues to seep and there's no one to call. And no buses have come past for a while. Perhaps they've already finished? In which case I might follow river down to suburbia. A long walk but at least I might get warm.