Saturday Morning

Are you awake?
I walk into a supermarket on Hoe Street so I can hear him.
It’s one I haven’t been into yet.
I pretend to look interested in the cereals.
Yes, since eight.

As I pass the frozen fish I ask when I’ll see him.
That’s why I’m ringing.
I stand in front of the pickles.
I don’t have my diary.
Neither do I.

I hadn’t realised how many things people like pickled.
Someone was murdered in Walthamstow, he says.
I know dad. It’s OK.