I walk down this well trodden street, as the year is coming to an end. The air is chilled, the flow of commuters beginning to ebb. Regent Street, Oxford Street and Soho are not my favourite place in the capital – that is probably Bloomsbury and its little bookshops – yet I always, sooner or later, come back here. Some places have a special resonance, an aura of recent or not so recent memories that I cannot help but cultivate, as if, someday, they could become useful.

The Apple store is an unavoidable visit if I happen to be around Oxford Circus. This morning I am looking at the new laptops, sculpted objects of sheer beauty. I love all toys, tools, cameras, computers, engineered objects that are the wonderful witnesses of our age. In some mysterious ways those human creations have as much erotic appeal as other “toys.” My wife, Sarah, says that I am a covert tools fetishist: I love drills and screwdrivers, engines and hard disks… 

Smiling to myself I walk into the store, greeted by youth and smiles. The new laptop stands there, silvery, chiselled, on one of the glass tables, surrounded by a group of excited boys and girls. I take a walk around the store, waiting for the little crowd to disperse.

Then my phone rings. I am surprised; who could be calling me at this hour in the morning? I have left the business behind for nearly a year now. It’s a distant voice which I do not recognise, a woman’s voice. 

“I have left a message on your wall,” she says, and a little later she rings up. A message? I walk across to look at keyboards. I intend to get a wireless one, a small white and light object I can use with my Mac and Pad, the tools of the trade of a writer in training.

My wall? I have only one Facebook page, dedicated to my novel, or rather my novel to be. It is public, but not that interesting. There is very little on it, a brief synopsis, some character sketches. As I walk back to admire the laptop, a young female assistant decides to chat me up, talking about the wonders of the screen, its resolution, the power to transform photo editing. How did she guess I am also a photographer? Maybe she did not; I just look the guy able to afford the premium price for this Mac. Indeed I am, but I take those decisions, buying or not, very slowly. I browse forever. 

We talk amiably for a few minutes. She would continue talking but I am now in a hurry. She says her name is Sue, and she gives me a phone number. She wants to help me. That phone call irritated me. I loathe unsolicited contact without reason. I have also decided to postpone a decision about the beautiful Mac… I thank Sue and join the flow of passers by on the street.

Sarah’s out until the evening. Determined to ignore the call my plan for the rest of the day is to go and exercise, and then write, until she comes home. I walk back to Charing Cross, now less crowded than when I arrived earlier. Waiting for my train I check my page. There is indeed a message: “Meet you on the shore in Chi.” Meet whom, and when, and where on earth is Chi?

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