There’s a violinist who lives in my street.
Every evening after dinner he practises. With the windows of my studio flung wide open, his melodies float up on the air currents, drifting unhurriedly in to where I sit. As he switches from a lively tune to a hauntingly beautiful one, with long drawn out notes and a sadness I can’t place, I’m drawn to my window. Orange spotted teacup cradled in my hands I lean against the frame, noticing the view over rooftops and chimney pots.
The impatient beeping of a motorbike jerks my gaze downwards, and I see that I am not the only one drawn to the sound. Some smoke, others, like me, hold drinks.
Each person is alone, contemplative, quiet.
In a moment we’ll retreat, back to our TV shows, and family dinners and computer screens, drawn by the irresistible urge to do something, to be occupied, to be productive.
But for just a moment, there’s a man and a violin, and that’s enough.