Bokelskere.no

But in the taxi home, there's an epilogue of sorts: my wife, mooning our of the window at rainy Regent's Park, says, 'God, do you remember those sirens?' and, still looking away, she reaches for my hand and squeezes it.

Strange, how such a moment grows in value over a marriage's course. We gratefully pocket each of them, these sidewalk pennies, and run with them to the bank as if creditors were banging on the door. Which they are, one comes to realise.