Budapest

The seats of the Magyar Állami Operaház are wooden and not well fixed. Despite Szilvia Rálik's fine lungs and the novelty of Fidelio rendered on three tiers of concrete and in costumes of vivid colour, the audience occasionally becomes restive and fidgets. Then there is an ominous creaking throughout the auditorium, as if the timbers of a ship were under the stress of turbulent sea.

Twitching sounds of the trolleybus pick-ups on the wires. Harsh buzzing of the closing doors. Otherwise the electric vehicle silent but for its tyres and the voice of a passenger in emphatic agreement with her companion, 'Igen...igen...', drifting through the open windows.

In the streets at dusk material falls from the buildings as the temperature descends, thudding and cracking plaster leaves at the end of the day.

Eversholt Street

A gaudily dressed and heavily made-up transvestite young man and a conservatively dressed middle-aged lady together at a bus stop. They have Lancashire accents:

TV: "Are we catching this bus or what?"
CDL: "It's got to turn up first."
TV: "I tell you, it were like a baby's arm... holding a tangerine."
CDL: "I know, you told me."

They got on a 253. Regrettably I was waiting for the 168.

He looked a lot like Che Guevara, but with even furrier ears

Walking with an acquaintance the other day, we were talking of the Country versus the Metropolis. He favours the former, and I was inclined to be passive in the exchange as all my arguments against the rustic life are graceless and crude. Then I changed the subject to theology: one of us Believes, the other Doesn't, but it's fertile ground for discussion between us nevertheless.

It was a long, absorbing conversation and afterwards we fell to companionable silence as we walked, until he suddenly exclaimed:

'That's it!'

'...'?

'You didn't look at the bear. That's exactly what I mean.'

He sounded almost aggrieved. This, he went on to explain, was precisely that jaded, blasé way that people had when they had lived in London for any length of time.

But now it was time to part, each to his own office, and I didn't have time to elaborate on my position. If I had, I should have said something like this:

I perceived the bear, just as he had, or rather a person dressed as a bear, passing us on the pavement. I registered the bear sufficiently to notice that the fur of its head did not quite match its body, and to have pondered whether its manifestation was related to the nearby Guard's barracks - they wear bearskins, so genuine that florid middle-aged ladies are occasionally moved to demonstrate opposition to the headgear. But probably not by getting themselves up as bears.

And he was right, I didn't look at the bear directly. Still less did I gawp at it.

• If someone is dressed as a bear in a public place it is almost certainly to attract attention, in which case it is the duty of the ambient populace not to encourage such behaviour by staring.
• It is entirely possible that someone has been employed to dress as a bear, coerced into doing so by the regrettable necessity of earning such payment as perambulation in a bear suit attracts. They may even have been trafficked into the country with the express purpose of performing that function. For the sake of that individual's dignity, it is considerate not to look at the bear.
• The bear impersonation may be behaviour symptomatic of psychosis on the part of the wearer. In which case, need I spell out why it is not a good idea to risk engaging mutual regard with the bear?
• The ursine costume might have been the only clean clothing available to the wearer that day, all other apparel being at the cleaner's. No-one's first choice for a weekday in town, but better than venturing out in a soiled loincloth or safety-pinned duvet cover, just. Only polite not to emphasise the unfortunate person's plight by gazing uninhibitedly upon the bear.

I'm sure there are other reasons for wearing a bear suit in a populous part of SW1 at lunchtime and I'm certain few among them justify rendering it a spectator sport. But my companion considers me calloused and insensate, scoured of the capacity for wonder and fascination by the relentless multiple stimuli of urban existence. And when next we meet I'll find it prohibitively difficult to steer the conversation towards an opportunity to explain myself.

There it is.

.

I've only ever knowingly met one Basque. She had that growly voice, and the nose. Possibly the ears as well, but her hair covered them and I could hardly ask if she wouldn't mind...

At one point she reeled off a list of famous fellow countrymen (imagine the growly voice now):

"...Balenciaga: another Basque; Manu Chao: Basque too; Eva Peron: also Basque..."

And so she went on, but then there were names I'd never heard of and I had to nod and smile as if I knew them.

Trelawney doesn't count, because he's only famous for actually being Cornish. So in return I told her about Nigel Martyn, born in St Austell, the first million quid goalkeeper, I saw him at Palace many times, and he played for England...

Then I couldn't remember the name of the fellow who sort of invented steam trains, and essentially dried up at that point.

She wasn't impressed.

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