Sitting in the car on a hopefully sunny morning in an unbalanced street in E17.
Drawing a transit van, parked further up, outside a baptist church.
A intermittent flow of recently inspired people walk out of the alley to the side of the building, past the van, shadowing the dappling light, rippling the sunlight as it passes through the part-leaved birches onto the pastel metal.
Across the road, separated, a man works his weekend way around his family car, with a politely humming vacuum cleaner. The black lead, umbilical, anchors him to his frontage of the street, and the separated congregation walks on the other side.
I am drawing a missed opportunity, despite no people, either unknowning or unknown, being still enough to enter the drawing.
I look for the definitive stave of a line, that would connect sky to roof, roof to branch, branch to aerial.
Then the sound that I have not been drawing asserts itself, a young girl playing a very simple shape on a keyboard while her father cleans the week out of his car, and it enters the drawing.
It passes through three men, finding the sunlight after the shaded church.
One, the older, clicks his fingers in time to her repeating piano pattern, which just pipes through the early-spring open window. With an ease which the girl’s family will never understand from their side of the street, the two men, leather-jacketed and recently-hallelujahed, sing, harmonise in the sun to her beat and the beat of their friend.
She plays on, unaware and they turn the corner and start to talk.