Awoken by the doorbell, I run downstairs only to greet a Jehovah’s Witness brandishing a magazine with a candle on the cover. Next month: a different candle.
‘Not interested, sorry.’
‘Ah.’ She turns to go. ‘Still, lovely day, isn’t it?’
And it is. Sunshine has finally hit London, with something of a solar vengeance. I stop sneezing from my on-off cold, only to start sneezing from hay fever.
Outside, everyone’s in shorts and sandals (though not me), where only a few weeks ago it was winter coats, torrential rain, hail and even snow.
Later, I saunter through Trafalgar Square, which now looks like the postcards: pristine fountains, blue sky, happy crowds in sunglasses. I fully expect a musical number to break out at any moment.
I don’t always give to beggars but when I do, I slightly overdo the pleasantries, pleased to find myself in a good mood.
Today, a forlorn-looking fifty-something man standing near Tottenham Court Road asks me for spare change.
‘But of course! Certainly! There you go!’
‘Thanks,’ he says, taken aback. And then: ‘If only more people were like you.’
Which in turn takes me aback.
