Stu really doesn't want to go out tonight.

His mates want him to. 'Stu,' they say, then yell at him from the middle of the carriage, then sit down back in front of him, patting his knee and practically holding his hand, 'come on, you're out.'

'I am out,' says Stu, stoically.' By this, they mean 'out and about'. 
'And? Aren't you enjoying yourself?'
'I am enjoying myself,' Stu says, sullen.

His mates want to know why he doesn't want to go out; he stretches his lanky long legs so they touch the bench opposite and he says: 'I'm wearing these and I'll never get in.' 'These' are his trainers; 'in' at the club.

The shortest of his mates, but maybe also the most sympathetic, says he will. 'I'll give you a hundred quid if you don't get in.' Later, he repeats the wager and raises it with a hundred pounds from each of his mates. Nobody protests, except Stu. Stu isn't having it. He won't be able to get home. 'You're coming with me, you're staying at mine,' his little but sympathetic friend tells him. 

'I want to be at home in the morning, I've got a delivery.'
'Well they're not going to come round first thing are they?'
'Bout ten.'
'I'll get you home by nine.'

Stu remains unconvinced. More than unconvinced, he's steadfast. Part of me wants to turn around to him and say: 'Stu, listen, you're out with your mates; they love you: they want you to hang out with them, don't be such a wuss.' But I don't, because that would seem like putting unfair pressure on him. He's under a lot of pressure – fair or no – as it is. There are maybe a dozen of them in total, inebriated to varying degrees, and by now the carriage is practically full with other people, all of whom now know that Stu really doesn't want to go out. The trainers are clearly an excuse. So, I reckon, is the delivery in morning. As Green Park approaches  – the stop where they'll change for another train to get to Shoreditch, apparently, although the route doesn't make immediate sense to me – they become more insistent. Another one of his mates – this one particularly handsome – squats down in front of Stu and looks at him directly: 'Come out with us, you're with us tonight!' 

'It's eight o'clock now, we're not gonna get into a club before midnight, what are we going to do for four hours?' This sounds like a reasonable question, if a touch pedantic...

'Drink beer!' his handsome mate beams at his face. Stu does not seem too keen on that idea, though the even-toothed smile of his mate in anticipation is pure joy. Stu is holding in his hand a can of ready-mixed Pimms, which is why intermittently, instead of 'Stu' they yell at him 'Pimms! Pimm's get up, you're coming with us!'

Green Park arrives and the lads drag Stu off his seat, literally. He flops back down. He's a tall lad, and quite awkward to get hold of, so they get hold of his Pimms instead and take that with them out onto the platform. 'This train is now ready to depart,' intones the driver over the speakers; the train may be ready, not so the lads. Stu really doesn't want to go out, but the lads really don't want to leave him here alone on the train. 'All right if you're not going, I'm staying with you,' another one of the tall handsome ones says. But the doors now try to close and the lads hold them open and Stu still doesn't budge, so this lad now also reluctantly gives up, and one of them, the one who had got hold of Stu's Pimms, throws the Pimms back into the carriage just as the doors finally rumble shut.

The train departs, with Stu still on it, his head now sunk a little and his eyes fixed on his mobile phone. This is more so as not to look at them as they wave at him and bang on the departing train door, shouting 'Stu! Stuuuu!' than to do anything phonewise.

I feel a bit sorry for Stu and I'm reminded of a night in Berlin many years ago when I was so tired I just wanted to go to bed, but my friends and colleagues all said, no let's go out, and while they didn't have to twist my arm anywhere near as much as Stu's mates just attempted to twist Stu's, I only after a great deal of hesitation finally decided to go, because after all, I was with my friends, and I was in Berlin. I had one of my best nights ever.

I should have told Stu to go with his mates, I want to think, and I'm about to think it, when the man who's since taken the seat directly opposite Stu says: 'Good for you mate!' And I think: actually, good for you, Stu. Now I want to turn around to him and say: 'well done Stu, good for you, you stood your ground. That was a lot of pressure you were under.' But then I think that would be hypocritical, because only five minutes ago I wanted to say to him: 'Stu, go out with your mates, man, they love you: it will be a night to remember.'

Now I think: who knows? Maybe Stu missed the best night of his young life so far. But then he's happy drinking a Pimms from a can and his mates will now be drinking beer for four hours before they may or may not be let into a club in Shoreditch. And he'll be home and in fine fettle tomorrow when the delivery arrives. Whatever the delivery may be.

What might that delivery be? I wonder. Who delivers something at ten o'clock on a Sunday and couldn't be texted, say, or WhatsApped and told: actually, I went on a bit of a bender last night, can you come round at two instead? But then I remember that the delivery in the morning thing, much as the trainers thing, was likely no more than an excuse, and a pretty lame one at that. Stu just really doesn't want to go out tonight. And if he really doesn't want to go out tonight, why should he?

Good for Stu.

(I just hope he's not going to be lonely tonight, thinking, I wish I'd gone out with my mates. That would be terrible. I seem to worry a tad more about Stu than is entirely necessary, I realise, but then so do his mates. At least he's got mates. And they care for him enough to practically drag him off a train. And, as Stu says to another passenger on the train, they'll give him a lot of stick for this on Monday. So probably the universe is in order. They even offered to pay for his drinks. But you know Stu, when they say you don't regret the things you've done, you only ever regret the things you haven't done? That's pretty much true. Give it ten years and most of them will be married with toddlers and very demanding partners or spouses and nobody will be dragging you off a train for a spontaneous night on the town. So next time, if there is one, just go out with your mates, Stu: seriously, even if you don't really want to. At least you'll have a story to tell; I just hope you'll have some good stories to tell, Stu, whatever you do...) 

the young dad in the tate members room has not quite settled into his very new role.

his very young face and his very tight jeans and his not very but still a bit hipster beard betray a mind that only a year ago or so couldn't quite have imagined himself sitting here now.

sitting here now perhaps, but probably not like this. not two thirds of a large leather sofa away from his girlfriend or maybe now wife, staring blankly ahead out of the window pane onto st paul's.

the girlfriend or maybe now wife is all aglow with motherly love pride and joy. the babe in her arms has all her attention and all her warmth and all the gift of her love as she feeds him from a small bottle. she is in her world and in her world too is the babe. young dad is in his. two thirds of a sofa between them.

when she gets up and hands him the babe he smiles and takes care as he holds the little living thing in his arms and admires it like an alien. he feeds it a bit too from the small bottle and he's relieved when the mother returns and takes the babe off his arms once again.

they sit for a while longer and for a while longer it like looks like the young dad, who is still a trendy dude at heart with things on his mind just the same as a year or so ago, when perhaps he was told, or perhaps they decided, you're going to be a dad, couldn't quite fathom then the enormity of the tiny thing now falling asleep in the arms of the young woman next to him, two thirds of a sofa and quite a world or so removed.

as they leave she carries the creature and he wrestles a bit with the stroller but then manages all right. he seems like the kind of young man who maybe now is saying goodbye to part of himself that he had got used to and probably quite got to like, and not quite yet said hello to a part of him that's apparently come to him out of nowhere, like a strange surprise of something that happens to be so, not unlike a task given to him by his mum when he was ten, but he's a nice, friendly, good lad, and now, like tidying up his room or doing his homework or eating his peas before leaving the table, young dad is grappling a bit with a reality that doesn't really make sense, but all in all one imagines that he'll manage all right.

during the latter part of my lunch, two men take the table in front of me, exuding gallic masculinity. they have what, in a different era, might easily have given way to machismo, but here stays contained in a presence of quiet authority. they put their wallets, their phones and their cigarettes down in front of them and sit down broad-shouldered and comfortable in their naturally tan skins, at an angle, on two adjoining sides of the table that's square. they're probably early thirties; one is quite tall, the other a little more bulky, they both have dark hair, the bulkier one a little shorter than the tall one, and both wear their stubble roughly the same. they both wear white t-shirts and shorts, the average kind, that ends just above the knees, a little higher when you're sitting down. the bulkier one has his entire left forearm covered in a tattoo that shows an abstract pattern rising above the name 'Anna', written in large letters on the outside near the lower part, and the taller one has no tattoos that from where i am sitting i can discern, but wears a thick silver bracelet around his right wrist, the kind you often see worn by strong men.

they order first coffee – espressos – then pizza and coca-cola and keep in continuous conversation, not agitated, not quiet, not loud, not exuberant, not demur: simple and plain. at one point, the bulkier one takes his phone and shows the taller one a video in which what i assume is his daughter performs what i assume is a song of some sort. i assume it's his daughter because it's a girl of about four, and i hear some faint music in the background of a tinny soundtrack, which makes me think she is performing a song. the taller man shows all the required interest and even holds the phone to his ear so he might be able better to hear. while this is happening, the bulkier man doesn't take his eyes off his friend, seeking, and it seems getting, the desired approval. the pizzas arrive, the conversation resumes and by the time the tall man has finished, the bulkier one is struggling a bit with his, so the taller one, without fuss or ado loads some of it onto his plate and eats that as well.

throughout all of this, their knees never once lose connection. when one of them shifts his position or involuntarily moves his leg, the other does too. sometimes their knees barely touch, just enough for the hairs on their legs to send to their brains the signal that the other one's there, but most of the time they're together. only at the end, when they've both finished eating and a man needs to sit back a little and stretch his legs just a tad, do they part. i don't think for one moment that they were even aware of this or that it has any particular meaning, i imagine it was completely subconscious. all it means is that love is a many-splendoured thing and beautiful whenever you see it and in whatever guise...

at fabiane’s in bedford avenue, three generations of a latin family sit together at table: a dad, his daughter and son, his wife, and his wife’s mother. the women are strikingly beautiful. so is his son, but his son is really a child, still, and all children, when they’re not ugly, are beautiful. the elderly lady, the wife’s mother, is sitting nearest the pavement by the little barrier that separates the diners from the passers by. she wears a turquoise dress with diamante trimmings and two golden earrings, quite large. her hair is dyed a red-tinted brown and she wears a little make-up behind her heavy-framed glasses. seeing her right next to her granddaughter it’s obvious how beautiful she once was and how beautiful she still is even now that she is no longer ‘beautiful’. she radiates maternal grace. maybe it's a mother's day outing.

the dad takes a picture of his daughter and wife and mother-in-law and then the wife gets up and takes a picture of her mother, her daughter and son. nothing much else happens, they’ve stopped eating a while ago and are just sitting there now, enjoying the mild evening air and the general atmosphere of a moderate brooklyn bustle, as am i.

then a pale blond and fairly preppy young man walks past and in undisguised rapture falls on his knees and tells the old lady how beautiful she is. he holds her hand and kisses it. for a moment i think that he must be an old friend but he obviously isn’t and the family look on, half flattered, half bemused, in good humour. a young woman retraces her steps and tries to unpeel the young man from what has effectively become a tender embrace of the old lady. seeing the object of his instantaneous affection, she similarly oohs and aahs and tells the whole family how beautiful they all are. the young man has now got up and enquires about the constellation of the relationships and then squats down again, holding on to the flimsy barrier, which wobbles, whereupon he loses his balance and nearly tips over, but the dad steadies him with a firm manly grip.

another young woman and another young man have now joined the party and after more exclamations of appreciation, the other young man takes his friend in a not too rough headlock and starts guiding him off. the young man once more compliments everyone on the marvel of their existence and then apologises for making a nuisance of himself. he says: ‘sorry for being a fucking nuisance.’

the dad says, ‘that’s all right, but don’t swear in front of my wife.’ as they stagger off, mirthfully, the old lady turns around and calls out to them: ‘you have a good night now, and be careful.’

it’s only about nine o’clock in the evening, but maybe they’ve been partying since last night and are now on their way home, or maybe they’ve only just started and are now on their way somewhere else, not that it matters. but whatever it is they’ve been taking: clearly it’s working and turning their world into a land of loved-up wonder. which is fair enough, we all need a little love in our lives. just so long as you don’t swear in front of a lady…

the date at the table next to mine at pies'n'thighs in williamsburg is not going badly. he's probably a bit more pies and she possibly slightly less thighs than either of their profile pictures might have suggested, but after a minor hiccup at the very beginning, when she actually says the words 'i'm not much of a pie person' to the face of someone who clearly, evidently lives by and for pies, they soon settle into something akin to banter and the topics of their conversation suddenly rivet.

before long, they're discussing the workings of the inner ear and his jokes become less laboured and funnier and she responds with laughter correspondingly more sincere.

i feel almost tempted to order a dessert just to continue listening in for a while, but then i remind myself that this is breakfast not dinner and that discretion is not just the better part of valour but also couth in situations potentially amorous. by the time i get up to leave i haven't yet spied cupid's arrows fly wantonly through the ether, but give them another date or two and who knows...

(and if they then take up walking together, for instance, or yoga, or even stop eating at places like pies'n'thighs but discover, say, sushi as a joint passion, then where one of them arguably slacks ever so slightly she may firm up a bit and where the other's protrusions are somewhat excessive he may shed just a tad, and in the fullness of time they may find they are just about perfectly matched to each other, and indeed who's to say that they aren't already just as they are even now, before they themselves know it.)

the barista at milano cadorna railway station makes a big noise arranging his cups and saucers in the dishwasher basket

he doesn’t mind if people know that that’s what he’s doing
he has no problem if people are aware that he’s working, in fact the opposite: 
the loud noise he’s making 
and the determination, the 
commitment
that go with it 
all say to the world:
know that this is being done! 
know, world, that this is being now by me; i
am doing this right now for you
know, world, that this is so!

the clear-pitched crockery clanging noise that he makes comes in short sharp bursts that speak to the world of a busy clientele that never ceases to demand coffee wherefore he shall not fail to load and unload his dishwasher tray lest some weary traveller should go without and this he will not allow to be

he doesn’t expect a response from the world. 
or a compliment
or any further
explicit
appreciation, he can accomplish his task just like that, he just
needs his world
to know…

the boy who is only going to wakefield
works
with quiet concentration

his book is
bound in leather and its cover
boldly embossed:
the holy bible

his
holy bible
for this book has no words in it passed down
ecclesiastical
generations
this
is a book full of empty pages, it’s
his sketch book and in it
unperturbed by three pairs of eyes that belong to three nearly middle aged men sitting around him furtively trying to assess what he’s doing
he starts in his book a new page
it’s a concept, an
idea
and using two biros one black and one red he draws in quick confident strokes a structure, a pattern, and gives it the title
CONCEPT IDEA

he’s dressed for spring with a t-shirt and jacket and not without reason it’s mid-march already but the weather passing by the grubby windows of the east coast line train is cold and unfriendly most unlike he who is friendly and warm in the fleeting few moments we meet while he moves so i can get to my seat

he works fast and having heard him say that he’s only going to wakefield whilst making way for another passenger with a seat reserved next to the one he’s just moved to to make way for me it soon makes sense to me why: wakefield is only minutes from leeds and already the woman on the train announces we’ll shortly be arriving into it now.

everywhere we go on this train we arrive ‘into’, not ‘in’, which perplexes me somewhat though it’s clearly not wrong, neither grammatically nor contextually, seeing that we’re on the outside each time and heading into the station, the centre, the town, the whathaveyou, and the boy who is dressed for spring (i’m still wearing six layers, though i’ve temporarily shed two for the journey) packs his bible into his slender bag and without looking back or saying goodbye unwedges his slender body from twixt table and seat and
vacates
his briefly claimed place among us on the train
heads
for the exit

he may only be going to wakefield, this boy, but by his art
and to his art his
dedication
i fancy he might be going much further
and glancing outside i can’t help but hope that he does

but before i have time to reflect any more on the 
wakefieldness
of it all
the train does indeed
much as had been foretold
arrive
into
wakefield
“home”
a drab sign, slightly battered, stands rainandwindswept to inform us “of the wakefield express”
which - and you can almost sense a train full of people nod in deep appreciation - is
“always first when it matters”