il n'y a personne

On the Jubilee and Victoria lines today, two different male couples are being themselves; dark fingers absentmindedly tickle the nape of the one with his eyes peaceably closed; the others sit with their fingers interlocked, a conveniently grown knee supporting this gentle union in full public display. Opposite, a young, tough looking bloke sits with his arm about his girlfriend - she sleeps with her cheek buried against his collarbone; he's staring at them.

His expression is unreadable, but it interests me because straight men seem to have the biggest problems when faced with homosexuality, and yet I know so many who don't have issues at all. Not even little ones. I just want to know what he is thinking, staring like that.

One of the chaps looks up, notices the scrutiny, and takes in the gaze impassively. Straight-boy blinks himself out an apparent stupour, and smiles. Gay man smiles back, and both look to themselves.

On the train to Cambridge, a stubbly thirtysomething in a muted blue jumper sleeps against the shoulder of a twentysomething, his own head resting against his companion's, hand hanging languidly over thigh. A pair of black chaps get on at Letchworth. the one walking ahead stops dead in the aisle on seeing the pair, "Woah, check this out!" to his mate. His mate shrugs, "Life is beautiful. C'mon..." and pushes him on down the carriage.

Cambridge is dead; there's nobody here. All the lights are off in all the wrong places; my house is empty; the labs are too; it's a different planet at this time of year. I'll finish my business here before heading back to the Big Smoke, and return to a busier Cambridge in the new year.

Life is beautiful. C'mon?

Huh, it really may seem that, today.

Uh-oh, black clouds are gathering; time to make an escape.