A Wednesday evening on Pentonville Road. 

A woman in the back seat of a cab. A big smile. The driver in front turns back to say something to her and they both laugh genuinely, wholeheartedly.

A Sunday afternoon on the corner of South End Road, Hampstead.

A middle-aged man with a tweed jacket and a bow tie inspects a postcard before he finally pushes it down the red mailbox.

A Saturday night somewhere in London.

A boy, a girl. A set of fingers on a beating heart, chipped blue nails on a grey t-shirt. The sound of a guitar playing behind the wall, the voice of a boy singing about a girl.

A Friday morning on the 38 bus.

Two brothers, aged 3 and 6, beside each other in one seat, their father next to them. The older one reads out from his book, spelling slowly words and sentences. The young one wishes he could read and asks his dad with a faint lisp:

‘Daddy, when I’m 7 will you buy me the biggest, most expensive book in the world?’

[What a hopeful thought, a kid wishing for a book!]

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