Through the backstreets up from the London train, taxis stream away, pour out into the main street, split and run wayward like water finding the best way. Slammed in, captive in the cavalcade, the foot goes down in a cab that has waited half the afternoon. Now it has you, it's stopping for no-one.
I watch from the broad curve of the kerb, waiting to cross. It's almost festive as the cabs drag clouds of blossom confetti behind them. I watch their red dots progress across an imaginary map.
After they've gone. I hear the sound of petal rain.