Unfortunately for sunrise it's become known as…. the crack of dawn. I once knew someone called Dawn and…. I wouldn't advise…. It's early. I wake, yawn, stretch, scratch grimace, scratch, brush, itch, gargle, spit, clunk: the rubic cube in my head clicks and clacks: It is my mission to find and read Iain Sinclair's Hackney That Rose Red Empire A Confidential Report and to write. But not in that order. It's at time's like this that you just got to love Hackney. It's bank holiday Monday and Pages Bookshop is open. I spend the day in organic and natural reading and writing.

At the days end a young woman paced up and down the aisle of the shop and stopped at the counter as I was about to pay and leave. A wallet's gone missing. The cafe owner's busy checking footage from the security camera when the young woman gives me a look. It's a masterclass in instinctive unspoken language accordingly I replied “Don't I know you?” to which she replied “yes”. Her name's Jes and she was friends of an ex of mine called Dawn. Dawn is with child and five months gone. The wallet isn't discovered. Jes leaves in a spew of goodbyes. I am reaching in my pocket to pay for the coffee when I see a pregnant purse in an empty shopping basket by my feet. I nip out of the shop “Jes?” and again “hey Jes”. She's about to get in her car and turns “thankyou thankyou ” she says and takes the wallet. Everyone's relieved. The cafe owner is relieved. Jes is relieved.