Dear friends,

I'm on a commuter train, in a tatty old carriage. The hawkers are coming through. Seducing us. With their pens, socks, towels, whistles, spoons, scarves, stain remover, superglue, a hundred grams of happiness tucked into a folded scrap of paper, thirty millilitres of good health in a sick blue ampule. A beggar whines an old song to a wretched accordion. Time has stopped.

The train suddenly picks up speed. I look out the window, forget myself.

Looking wears out glass, just as walking wears out steps. Ever more delicate. Ever more transparent. My first book was called Delicate Glass.

How many people stare out of a carriage window! How quickly it disappears!

They replace the windows. They must do. Every window in every carriage. In autumn. Before the winter cold.