So some more details:
Sitting under a blanket in the lounge, I can hear the branches from the tree outside scraping against the window. It's a friday night, so the almost-dark has that jittery friday-night-feeling: full of promise and possibility, an empty weekend stretching out, and people step more lightly than usual. In the early hours of the morning you'll hear them walking wearily back, heavyfooted now and swaying, their voices rocking, their heads pounding, but this is part of the ebb and flow of the streets.
For reasons I think I begin to understand, but have not yet fully explored, the Cowley Road seems to be made up primarily of hairdressers' shops. I am being only a little hyperbolic (if you counted the number of hairdressers and compared it to the number of other businesses along the road I'm sure you'd find that "primarily" is not an accurate word).
Then there are the priceless signs you've passed a million times and never seen until today--on the side of a shabby-looking takeout Indian place, "Dial-A-Curry" followed by a phone number.
Because I feel like I have inherited an evening that would otherwise be spent scrubbing pots and pans in a steamy kitchen (more on this later) I feel that I can make it stretch and be longer than it is. But already darkness has fallen and it's cold out and I've spent the better part of the afternoon napping and then subsisting on a diet of chocolate and tea (highly recommended, by the way).
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