I am in Molesey. A. is in Thames Ditton. We are together. I hardly know what that means, except sometimes a shared love of a particular kind of art-school dance performance pop. Deaf School are claimable, gentle, costumed, and we go to see them at the Roundhouse one Sunday. Chugging home on her Honda we climb away from the river and at the top of Putney Hill the city warmth dies and the cold comes sweeping over us from the parks, the heath, the commons, the suburbs, down the railway embankment into her house and across the green into mine.