Seen and heard
Last night, walking home at around 11pm through Spitalfields, I felt particularly detached from the hordes of party-goers at that stage of leaving restuarants and pubs on their way to clubs and the next phase of the night. Turning down Hanbury street, I passed Rossi's cafe - a typical Italian greasy spoon, an institution locally, and normally full of builders from the nearby sites of new skyscrapers.
But last night it was magically lit up, and inside was a scene that could have been from New York or Naples in the 1930s. It must have been Mr Rossi's granddaughter, or niece's birthday - for there she was, aged perhaps thirteen, dressed in a timeless pale pink satin dress with flowered clips in her long dark hair and patent slippers, jumping up and down, playing with several white balloons that floated around her. Around her sat the family - men in jackets, women in colourful fitted dresses, and the children in miniature versions of their parents clothes, joining in their sister or cousin's game. The inside of the cafe glittered - the inlaid panelling and mirrors reflecting the light - and for a minute I certainly wasn't in Saturday-night Spitalfields.
Overheard today, walking down the market, a random yet strangely obvious new cry from the hawkers: 'Kember's home! Norman Kember's home! Anyone seen 'im? Come right along!'
But last night it was magically lit up, and inside was a scene that could have been from New York or Naples in the 1930s. It must have been Mr Rossi's granddaughter, or niece's birthday - for there she was, aged perhaps thirteen, dressed in a timeless pale pink satin dress with flowered clips in her long dark hair and patent slippers, jumping up and down, playing with several white balloons that floated around her. Around her sat the family - men in jackets, women in colourful fitted dresses, and the children in miniature versions of their parents clothes, joining in their sister or cousin's game. The inside of the cafe glittered - the inlaid panelling and mirrors reflecting the light - and for a minute I certainly wasn't in Saturday-night Spitalfields.
Overheard today, walking down the market, a random yet strangely obvious new cry from the hawkers: 'Kember's home! Norman Kember's home! Anyone seen 'im? Come right along!'
Comments