Something rather strange and sad happened to me today. Since my promotion kicked in, I now have an enforced work at home day each week. In theory, this is a time to read manuscripts away from all the distractions my colleagues (who are both lovely and chatty) present. When it's as hot as today, it seems in practice to consist of my staring out of the window and wishing I were in France. The upshot of this (and a ridiculous amount of 'ooh, there's my fridge, I should eat some more cheese') is that I went out in Finsbury Park not wearing enough clothes. As a young(ish) woman in Finsbury park, generally a short skirt means that all your vegetables from the shop are free, but also that all the men in scary restaurant A will cheer when you go past, all the men pouring out of potentially BNP pub B will go silent and stare at you until you feel like you might as well be completely naked and at least four vans will beep. Honestly, if you're feeling unattractive, and you're under 40, come and give it a go - you'll leave with a smile, but potentially also mere metres ahead of a sexually frustrated throng.

Anyway, so I went to try out an intriguing Tagine place that I've lived next to for three years and never quite gone to (was ok - but very pre-made indeed, and suspect he microwaved it in the Tagine pot to reheat), sat outside, and carried on reading my manuscript (god bless the kindle and the boyfriend who bought it for me). About ten minutes later, a man appeared on the other side of the restaurant railing. He was white, about 50-60, oddly twitchy and something about him was just a bit off. He hailed me with the words, 'Are you...ENGLISH?' I admitted that yes, I was, and he launched into a story beginning with his brain damage after a piece of grain found its way into his eye (he was a builder). I couldn't hear all of it because of the traffic (I explained he couldn't join me owing to the manuscript/work/because I'm a bit worried you'd pull a knife and somehow you seem like you have a basement I'd never want to visit, so he was shouting over lorries), however the upshot was he wanted to learn to read. He asked if I could help him and I said no. I said no because he was a bit scary, and because some lady on a bus had given him an organisation to google. But after he slumped away, I felt awful. Yes, he was a bit weird, but he could have been telling the truth and isn't it horrible that I felt so unable to even consider giving him the help he wanted? A few years ago, I might have done it, but now all I could see was basement/knife/he keeps using my name in every sentence (oddly disconcerting when said in a very gentle way over lorries). So, well, I don't know what I should have done. Wouldn't have hurt me to sit with him over coffee in a public place for goodness sake.

I felt a bit better because he came back and asked a lot of involved (and extremely strange) questions about my Kindle, which allowed me to put him more safely in the "definitely strange, potentially mad" box which is so comforting to all us normal people. The thing is, after he'd gone for the second time, I realised (I think) what was going on - he was lonely. As simple and horrible as that - he was reduced to creating conversations out of nothing for some human contact. I get a bit wittery after a day of working at home alone - I dread to think what would happen after a month. London is a lonely, mad place for those without friends.