There’s some kind of apple-bobbing contest going on outside the pharmacy, so I wander over and photograph it for the paper. The apples look too perfect: red and grass-green things grown in New Zealand and flown over wrapped in tissue paper, while their acidic Swedish cousins rot on branches directly opposite and then fall down to be consumed by wasps from the inside and rats from the outside.

A kid dressed as a ghost almost chokes. Either because he swallowed water or else he bit into one of the apples. They still have their labels on. He receives a sharp punch to the back that does the trick.

Noora walks over and says, ‘You see anything out of the ordinary you report it to me.’

Well, okay, love of my life, great to see you too.

How does she manage to do this? To separate the different chambers of her world like this. Is it coldness or just professionalism?

The streetlights flicker on and off and she says, ‘End of the line.’ And then she goes off to help a desperate mother who can’t find her son.

The wind picks up and a large apple falls from a high branch and breaks open on a bench. Must have been one of the last on the tree.

Four men walk past me, each one holding a tunnbrödsrulle hotdog. They smell incredible. Pork sausage and Norrland flatbread and shrimp salad and mash potato and ketchup. Food of the gods. One of the men is Daniel from the gamer café. Shouldn’t he be hosting the game launch tonight with his twin?

I approach the chestnut stall.

It says ‘Kristersson’s Nuttilicious Delights. Established 1899’ on the side of his cart.

‘Mind if I take a photo?’

‘What do I get out of it?’ says the grey-haired stall owner.

‘Free advertising, I guess.’

‘You gonna buy nuts?’

I take the photo. He looks stern in his stained leather apron, holding a sharp, metallic scoop. His grey hairs fall across his face so the photo only picks out one of his eyes.

I relent and buy a portion of chestnuts and walk away. They’re hot and they smell delicious. Sugar and earthiness. More memories of midnight walks by the Thames on nights with no breeze and no chill in the air. The lights from riverside buildings reflecting in the tidal waters. The buzz of traffic on nearby bridges. Sirens in the distance. Barges taking London’s waste slowly out of town. The feel of a man’s hand in my own for the first time that year. The sense of what might come to pass.

Two women walk by wearing police-uniform fancy dress, but with short skirts.