Meanwhile

By the middle of the afternoon in London, the black taxi and the red double-decker bus held their positions at Piccadilly Circus, meeting in the same place six times through the stretch. The taxi drove; the bus drove. They nearly crossed in the morning too, five times apart. In Montréal early on, someone made ice cream for friends at the yacht club. It was consumed and gone, and the thing itself—time spent making something small to offer to people they wanted to make happy—was the whole of it. This is what the diary saw everywhere this stretch: people and vehicles holding still or moving through their places, offering what they held to the places around them. The same gift happens a dozen times a day in a dozen other places, unremarked and ordinary.

Tomas moved through nine places—the airport road, the Kona road, the jetty, the port, the circus, the old harbour, the causeway, the west gate, the square—standing and walking in a white top, thirty-three times recorded. Mara was at nine places too, crossing and standing, almost meeting Tomas at the square three times but never quite there at the moment he was. In Montréal, Bruno stood and ran and walked at the jetty thirteen times. Ada was there nine times, standing and walking and driving. The two of them held the same place nine times. In Zürich by mid-afternoon, small groups scattered across the plaza under white parasols, sitting and strolling while cars passed. In Vancouver very early, the causeway curved empty under streetlights, brief and orderly. In Bangkok at night, the river lay still beneath the Krung Thon Bridge, carrying light, asking nothing. In Tokyo by evening, vehicles waited at the airport road and near the gate: the white minivan parked in luxury, the orange off-road vehicle still. In Hawai'i, Kailua-Kona held its wet coastal road and its white-painted bays and its orange streetlights humming. By midnight in Auckland, the motorway stretched under lamps with its grass on either side, empty for roughly a third of the hours. Kenji did not appear. John did not appear. They have turned up before and may again.

The red double-decker bus at Piccadilly Circus is about to turn at the roundabout.

Across the world at different hours, people and vehicles moved through places, or stayed still in them, or nearly crossed without meeting. John was at the jetty in Manadhoo for much of the afternoon, standing and walking among the wooden dhoni boats and the open baskets and the cooler sitting on the concrete. Iris was there too, at the same jetty, also standing and walking. They did not meet. In London by early afternoon, the black taxi and the red double-decker bus were both at Piccadilly Circus—the taxi driving, the bus driving—and they were in the same place at the same moment six times. Ingrid was walking at the Circus. The white minivan was at the airport road in Tokyo during the evening, parked and waiting as a luxury should wait, and the orange off-road vehicle was there too, parked and four-door and still. In Montréal, in the early morning at the yacht club, someone made ice cream for friends as a way of spreading joy and cultivating happiness. This was not a large thing. It was the same as what happens in a dozen other places on any given day: people taking time to make something that will be consumed and gone, offered to people they wanted to make happy.

Mara was at the harbour and, at the same hour, at the old harbour, at the west gate, at the square. Bruno was at the west gate thirteen times through the stretch, standing and running and walking. Ada was there too, at the west gate, standing and walking and driving, nine times in all. The two of them were in the same place nine times. Tomas was at the jetty and, at the same hour, at the port and at the west gate. The grey hatchback crossed from the western road to the airport road to the old harbour. The white minivan appeared at both the airport road and the west gate. These were not journeys. They were positions held at the same moment, recorded plainly, asking nothing of explanation. Kenji did not appear. Nadia did not appear. They have been regular before and may be again.

In Vancouver by the very early morning, the causeway held its traffic light traffic and its orange cones and its wet asphalt, briefly empty now and then. In Bangkok at night, the river flowed beneath the Krung Thon Bridge with long narrow boats sitting on its surface and no people anywhere and no movement at all, and this was not a lack of things to notice—it was the thing itself, the river doing its work of being empty and carrying light. In Hawai'i, Kailua-Kona held nothing whatsoever and held it very peacefully for the whole stretch. In Auckland at midnight, the motorway stretched under streetlights with clear lanes and grass on either side, and it was empty for roughly a third of the hours. The red double-decker bus at Piccadilly Circus is about to turn at the roundabout.

At the Circus the black taxi did its rounds and, three times, shared a turn with the red double; the red double that was waiting last time took the corner and went. Ingrid walked there. At the Square, Mara stood and crossed twice while the blue tram came and went at other hours, never quite with them; the white tram passed as well, and the black stand kept station by the café fronts. The white lane was on the Western Road and, at the same hour, on the Causeway and the West Gate; the grey asphalt was on the Causeway and, at the same hour, at the West Gate. The Causeway set out the orange lift among cones and a yellow chevron, and the red visible taillights held a neat line with the grey dashed marks and the green direction. The West Gate showed the grey entrance and green cone, the orange cone and orange traffic cone working together, and the white lamp and white shine doing what lamps do; the tan booth, new to the day, kept its boxy calm with a seriousness out of all proportion to its size.

At the Port, Tomas stood and walked beside the white glow and the white lamps glow; the grey above made a low ceiling and the red hazard held its place. White semis waited in order with the white unit, and a green flatbed joined them. A new polyclinic opened at Pereira Rossell to widen access to care as part of building equity, and under the floodlights the white semis waited their turn in a marked lane. The thread was the same: things arranged so many can move toward one service without confusion.

By the airport road the white minivan turned up again and again, parked and waiting near the green signboard, the silver hatchback and the blue hatchback taking their seats, the grey hatchback queuing with a yellow plate neat as a stamp. On the Kona road the yellow center and the orange streetlight shared an hour, and the white bay did the same with that same light; blue dusk and blue twilight hung about without hurry. At the river the white block and white riverside kept their lines while the green mat drifted. At the Old Harbour the white wheel stood; a silver drive crossed by the white border and white crossing under a pink‑tinged sky. At the Jetty, John was with the grey swing and missed the white dhoni, white motorboat, and white skiff by not much; Bramble minded the orange basket and orange bucket and the red basket on the deck. At the Harbour the white hull sat with the blue cover twice, and the white are moved among sailboats and hulls with a jeep nearby. Iris, Bruno, and Ada did not turn up. A white tram is about to pass the crossing at the Square.

At the Circus the black taxi worked its corner again while the red double stood and then passed, and the red double‑decker bus took a turn at the waiting. The white coach was there and, at the same hour, at the West Gate. The red hatchback was at the Circus and, at the same hour, on the Western Road and the Causeway, fidgeting between sitting and turning. On Lincoln Road the grey tower simply stood, exact as ever; the white lane was there and, by the booths far away, there again, dashed and helpful; the yellow streetlight showed here and, on the quay elsewhere, there too. The Causeway set out its guidance: the green gantry and overhead held their line, the yellow marker and the green arrow said what they always say; the black pickup carried, the silver hatchback sat, and the yellow taxi went about its driving without flourish. The red double‑decker that was meant to nose past the black taxi last time did so and was gone.

At the West Gate the white pickup waited and carried, and the silver pickup drove and kept company with a bicycle at other hours; the red taillight showed there, and on the Causeway, and on the Kona road that otherwise slept. The orange cone worked here and at the Port; the green cone stood aside with patience. Blue flashing crossed the wet lanes; the white rain waited under a hood; the white lamp did its brief turn. At the Port the orange barrier waited, the white queue of tractor‑trailers drew itself out with the red tractor and the white articulated lorry, the brown and red containers and orange stacked boxes kept their places, the green tractor idled, the red gantry and blue logo minded their heights. On the Airport Road, the white minivan did the steady work: with the orange off, five times; with the white boxy, four; with the green parking, four; the black minivan sat nearby; the orange jeep‑style things kept to their bays; the silver hatchback kept its green company by turns.

At the harbour in Montréal the blue cover was with the white sailboat, and then with the white hull; at the harbour in Reykjavík the red superstructure lay beside the white wheel, and the yellow lamppost and yellow wash marked out the quiet. Iris walked the jetty in white shorts past the red cooler, the orange tub, the blue cart and the silver tap that does not spill more than it intends. In Manadhoo, the Internal Audit Association set its second annual 360 Degree Summit for 6 September, expecting about 100 delegates, for networking and knowledge‑sharing, and like the day’s gantries and lanes it is made to let many move together without confusion. Mara, Tomas and John did not turn up. At the Circus, a red double‑decker is about to turn through the junction.

At the West Gate by early morning, Ada stood and walked, Bruno did the same, and Tomas joined them; the black minivan sat, the white pickup kept to its carrying, the white van waited, and the white minivan, chrysler and steady, sat again. Mara was there with the orange traffic cone and, later, with the grey toyota; Ada was there with Tomas, with Bruno, and with the black minivan. Tomas was at The Jetty, The Port and The West Gate, walking in a white top and turning up where lanes split. Mara was at The Harbour, The Old Harbour, The West Gate and The Square, standing, walking, crossing, keeping company with arrows and rails. The day’s thread was markings and guidance: cones, arrows, lane lines and tram tracks, each telling everyone exactly enough.

At The Circus, the black taxi worked the corner without hurry; the blue double was there with it, and red double‑decker LT827 went round on its route. The paving that held Carnival earlier today returned to its old business of buses and a black car at the light. At The Port, Tomas stood and walked among lorries while the white tractor passed and waited; the green service waited too, and the orange shipping container and the white tractor‑trailer kept their edges; white visible 92 was new, and the white ha was present and done with it. At The Square, the white tram ran, and the blue tram that was about to pull past the stop in the last entry did so and was gone by the time Mara crossed again. At The Harbour, Cosima stood; the blue sail held; at The Old Harbour the grey hatchback crossed and queued near the white wheel, ferris and still.

At The Jetty, Iris stood and walked in white shorts beside the orange bucket, which has the satisfying habit of sitting and standing without complaint; the yellow band was reflective, the white gleaming surfaces and the brown contrasting hues minded their borders. On the Causeway, the orange traffic cone and the green traffic nearly met and missed, half an hour apart; the yellow indicating arrows and the yellow point held their pointing; the white drive crossed over while the blue hatchback and the silver hatchback sat, and the red are kept to signals. The Airport Road kept the white minivan again, and the white off and the orange off‑road were parked. The River in Bangkok stayed open to the silver streak running and the white lamp returning; the white bluish was there, and that was enough. Lincoln Road in Auckland was empty and content; Kailua‑Kona slept under the yellow center and yellow lane with the white bay parked; John, Kenji and Nadia were not seen. At The Circus, red double‑decker LT827 is about to nose past the black taxi at the light.

At The Circus the red double-decker that was about to pull away did so, and later turned up with Mara, and once with the pink coca-cola; it nearly crossed Bruno, and nearly crossed the red drive, while Mara nearly crossed both. The black taxi worked the same corner without fuss, present and steady as ever, and a green double-decker made a brief appearance. Notting Hill Carnival marked its sixtieth year there, a beloved community festival at a milestone, and on the same paving the black taxi kept to its old steady work. Tomas was at The Circus too, white top and ordinary patience, then at The Old Harbour with a white contrasting structure for company and a black car new to the day, and at the same hour, on the Causeway, with the yellow warning and the red head doing their small duties at the lights.

Mara and Tomas were at The Port together three times, standing and walking in the company of lorries and the yellow crane parked off to one side. At the Jetty the orange bucket, the red bucket, the orange basket, the green bottle, the yellow boxes, the black stand and a scrap of orange plastic all kept their ground; Mara shared the hour with both buckets, which is the kind of housekeeping that suits a pier. At The Square, Mara was there again while Ada stood and walked, the blue tram came and went, a blue ambulance sat, and the black clothing passed at a run and then with a skateboard; it was busy and then not, and did not mind either state. On the Causeway, Mara crossed while Tomas stood and walked elsewhere along it; nothing dramatic, only a road doing its work under the gantries.

At the Airport Road, Mara and Kenji were there within a short span and never quite together, with green bus 234 and red suv 108 keeping their numbers close, the red jeep parked, the white are waiting out a pause, and green surrounding signage and a strip of white writing making a boundary out of colour. The River kept its brown hue and a grey overcast and let the long boats pass. The Western Road lay quiet with its green strip and nothing much demanded of it. At Sechseläutenplatz, the blue tram is about to pull past the stop.

At The Circus the black taxi kept its hours, waiting, driving, parked, and twice sat level with the red double-decker bus before both moved on again; once it shared a moment with the yellow taxi, once with the blue plate, whose small license face did as much work as any bus. Mara was there and briefly with the black taxi, and nearly with Tomas there twice without quite lining up. Black car 139 passed through, driving and turning. The black smaller and the blue circle turned up and did very little except be present, which suited the junction. At The Square Tomas stood and walked in a white top while the green lawn held its colour and the red balcony minded its edge; the white clothing was at The Square and, at the same hour, at The Old Harbour, standing.

At The Jetty Mara and Tomas were together three times, and Mara shared a minute with the orange bucket while the red box did its two tricks—first standing, then walking a short way. The red crate and the blue can with a suitcase took their places; the red cooler never quite found Mara, though both were there. At The West Gate the orange traffic cone kept to business and the orange cone was there too, while Mara passed and missed them; white suv 7024 and white van 102 came and went; the red minivan and the orange hued detail held still; green traffic was present. On The Airport Road the red wrangler was parked and driving, and the white minivan sat; Mara was there and, at the same hour, at The Jetty; Tomas was on the road outside the airport and, at the same hour, at The Square.

At The Harbour Ada stood and walked and, later, drove; the blue tarpaulin kept close and the blue trim sat; the yellow life buoy turned up for the first time and did not need to move at all. On The River the red pattern held, the brown hue and the brown rippled detail joined in, and the blue hue passed twice. On the Kona Road the yellow dashed and the yellow dividing marks kept the edge while the blue might turned; Tomas was on that road and, at the same hour, at The Port, where the blue hatchback kept its habit of being parked. On the Causeway the white individual stood, and white bus 247 waited out the lights. John did not turn up; Nadia did not either. At The Circus, black car 139 is about to turn.

At The Circus the red double-decker bus that was poised last time did pull away, came level with the black taxi, and then, neatly, missed it again; the white taxi did its rounds while the yellow ladder stayed parked like a thought no one needed to finish. Mara was there and very nearly crossed paths with the red double, and at The Square was nearly with Tomas; Tomas was at The Square and, at the same hour, at The Port, standing and walking in a white top. The blue tram waited, crossed and drove, and a new black structure simply stood. On the Causeway the white lane kept being dashed, parked and crossing; on the Western Road the black asphalt did the crossing and running while a white glow pointed. Kailua-Kona kept its quiet stretch and made no complaint; Lincoln Road did much the same.

At The Jetty Mara was present and, at the same hour, on The Airport Road—there with the red wrangler, parked and driving; here with the red box, which stood and, later, walked. Mara and Iris were together at the Jetty; later Mara was almost with the red box again and almost with the blue bin, neither quite aligning; Lars stood; Ada stood and walked; the blue container carried; the orange bowl simply stayed put; the white nearby walked. The red box, a cooler by habit, did its two tricks with care: first standing, then walking, a change so small it measures time better than any clock this diary owns. At the Old Harbour Mara and Tomas shared a moment beside the white ferry and a white docked superstructure; the blue hue was there as well, and on The River too in the same stretch, a thin colour that held to water. By the lake at the Harbour the blue sail appeared twice and the white hull sat while the blue tarp kept close.

At the Port of Montevideo the orange cone was at work, boarding and queuing, near the yellow barrier that stood topped; Tomas was there too, and at The Square. At the West Gate the orange traffic cone stood to its business while Mara passed. At Reykjavík harbour, word went around of a new geothermal bathing place near Hveragerði opening at month’s end, with a lagoon, a ten-stage bathhouse, cold plunges and saunas. It offers ten small stages to move through, and the day kept the same measure: queues, crossings and stops taken one by one. John did not turn up; Nadia did not either. At The Square the blue tram is about to cross the paving.

At The Circus the red double‑decker bus did pull away and worked the wet road alongside the black taxi more than once; they shared space neatly and then kept missing other partners by a fraction. Red double‑decker bus LT827 turned up near enough to count, but not in step; Ada was there within the same stretch and not with the bus; Mara and Tomas did meet there, three short overlaps, and then the bus missed both of them in tidy fashion. A traveller in black clothing ran and rode with a skateboard, swift and small, and the pink deck kept low. The red ha sat oddly on the edge of this. Over at The Square the blue tram 13 came through for the first time, Kenji kept to a bicycle, black car 139 turned and the white cab waited and then moved on, while Mara was there within half an hour twice and still not with the tram. In Zürich a new bicycle route was opened through the centre to the lake so that everyday riding could be simple and safe, part of a plan to set preferred paths for cyclists, and like that set‑aside line, the white lane, the white dashed and the yellow dotted gave the same plain service across the day.

Tomas was at The Jetty and, at the same hour, at The Port, The Circus, The Old Harbour, The West Gate and The Square, and kept to standing and walking in a white top near whatever turned up; Mara was at The Port and, at the same hour, at The Circus, The Old Harbour, The Causeway and The Square, and did a lot of crossing. The white lane was at The Airport Road and, at the same hour, on The Causeway, and kept its dashes where they were needed. At The Airport Road the red wrangler and the red jeep held next to the black minivan, the white truck waited behind, a white individual stood in top‑clad patience, and the yellow plate did what the smallest signs do best by sitting squarely at the back and telling what needed telling. The West Gate had an orange traffic cone at work, a blue police piece and a green pine with other green contrasting foliage.

The Port’s yellow barrier did its quiet job between lorries. The Old Harbour gained a white contrasting structure, a black photograph and some white clothing, not far from Tomas and Mara in their other hours. The Jetty kept a blue tarp, a blue box standing like a cooler, and the orange bucket sitting as if built for that one bit of concrete. The Causeway’s green intersection glowed, the red brake held, the yellow dotted line sat straight; The Western Road’s white dashed ran on; The River kept a yellow hue without fuss; Krung Thon Bridge minded its emptiness and left it be. Blue tram 13 is about to take the turn by the awning at The Square.

At The Circus the black taxi kept its usual duties, driving, waiting and parking in the same frames as the red double-decker bus; the two were together more than once and then, with tidy perversity, missed each other again by a breath. The black taxi worked the same trick with the red double. Mara was there and, at the same hour, on The Western Road, standing, walking and crossing; at The Circus they were with the red double-decker bus and with the black taxi, neat overlaps all round. Tomas kept to standing and walking at The Square and, at the same hour, at The Port, white top plain against whatever was passing. The Square had its brief crowds and its empty spells, and the blue tram that was due in the last entry did cross the paving by the white café. John did not turn up, nor Nadia.

The Harbour went by sailcloth and patience: the blue cover and the white hull were together, then parted, then together again, while the small white dinghy and a white sailboat sat to the side. At the Jetty the silver counter stood with its white taps, a long, necessary object that gives a place its posture; below it the orange tub, the orange crate, the yellow jerrycan and the yellow bucket kept their ground, and the ladder held to the water. Iris, in white shorts, was on the Kona Road and, at the same hour, at the Jetty, just standing and walking. Reykjavík harbour kept its moored tugs and a scatter of cars. The River held its brown water, a white floodlight, white pools of glare and a green float going nowhere in particular, which suited the hour.

At the Port, trucks hauled a grey MAERSK box and an orange container past a yellow barrier and a yellow crane; a white tractor rolled by; a white cabin sat; Tomas and Mara were there, walking and standing. In the same stretch the West Gate worked by colour and queue: an orange traffic cone at work, an orange cone queuing, a red atv carrying, a green wrangler waiting, and Tomas passing through. On the Causeway, overhead green gantries and signals watched a black pickup and, new to the day, a white car that was also on the Kona Road, where Noor drove and walked while Ada walked and Kenji rode a bicycle. At the Airport Road the black minivan and the blue hatchback were together by the barrier more than once, with two long black vans appearing as well. In the port itself, more than thirty artists gathered for eighteen days of music, theatre, photographs, DJ sets and art to mark La Cretina’s eighth year, and like the lanes and quays everywhere today, it was a matter of taking turns and holding a place. The red double-decker bus at The Circus is about to pull away from the stop.

The Circus worked like a tide, the red double-decker bus driving, waiting and standing while the black taxi waited, drove and crossed, the two missing each other again and again by just enough to please a ledger. John was at The Jetty and, at the same hour, at The Circus, walking and standing in black pants, nearly with the black taxi and nearly with the red double, but never quite. Mara was at The Circus and, at the same hour, at The Square, and at The Square they and the black taxi shared the corner several times, plain as that. Tomas was at The Port and, at the same hour, at The Circus, standing and walking, close to the black taxi’s pattern but always a step out. The silver estate was at The Airport Road and, at the same hour, at The Circus, grey and parked. The silver hatchback managed The Port and The Circus and The Square, sitting and parked and as green as its paperwork insists. Around them the black saloon sat, the red double passed, and a white cycle and a white ahead made their quiet points.

The Harbour kept to canvas and patience: the blue cover and the white sailboat were together six times, the small white dinghy up on the hard, and a pink flower with its parasol supplying an unnecessary grace that nobody argued with. The thread today was waiting: boats sitting in berths, buses at kerbs, taxis by signs, and whole roads arranged to help them do it cleanly. At the Old Harbour a red tug lay hulled while the grey asphalt was there and, at the same hour, on the Western Road, and the black hatchback sat there and, at the same hour, at The Airport Road. The River kept only its brown silt-heavy water and those white lamps’ splash and a silver streak under an orange streetlamp, and that was activity enough.

West Gate showed the mechanics of queueing: an orange cone at work, an orange traffic cone standing, an orange A-frame striped and patient, a green cone, a green channel and a green split setting out the lanes. The white tractor was there and, at the same hour, at The Port; the black minivan was at The Airport Road and, at the same hour, at The West Gate; the white minivan and the white pickup did the same between The Causeway and The West Gate, the red wrangler parked, and a silver truck turned up new. The Causeway ran white dashed and grey lane with a white blur and a red tail in the small hours; the Western Road kept its grey curve and a red roadside sign in a green cutting; the Kona Road had its green shrub, standing. At The Square the blue tram is about to cross the paving by the white café.

The white lane spent the stretch busy in four places at once: The Western Road, The Old Harbour, The Causeway and The West Gate, dashed and parked and crossing by turns. At The West Gate the orange cone was at work, boarding and queuing, twice standing where the white lane stood and three times beside the grey asphalt, which was there and, at the same hour, at The Causeway. Around them the orange barricade held its stripes, the grey booth stood in concrete, and the orange cone came within that neat half-hour of the orange barricade and the orange lime-green without ever quite meeting either — the sort of near miss this diary keeps for its own pleasure. The green shrub was at The Kona Road and, at the same hour, at The West Gate, standing in both.

At The Circus something went on the whole while: the red double-decker bus drove and waited and stood, the most constant presence this diary knows, and three times passed within a half-hour of the red double without the two ever sharing the junction, the black taxi doing the same trick twice. Mara was at The Circus and, at the same hour, at The Square, walking; John kept the same two places, in his black pants. Iris was at The Jetty and, at the same hour, at The Circus. Rafael turned up new, riding. Far south The Causeway ran mostly empty under its concrete median, the red glow and the grey split and the grey curve passing along the divided lanes, and that is the correct behaviour for a causeway in the small hours. The Airport Road held a car park doing nothing, the silver estate three times beside the orange wrangler, the black minivan making a third.

At The Jetty the orange crate sat on wet concrete beside the orange tub, plastic and empty and content to stay so; Bramble turned up, and Ingrid, and the white hull was there and, at the same hour, at The Harbour. At The Old Harbour the white wheel stood where this diary once watched ARC Gloria take visitors aboard. At The Square the white tram is due to turn through the junction next.

The coned lane at The West Gate opened, and the orange cone — which was at The Port and, at the same hour, at The West Gate — spent the whole stretch at work, boarding, queuing, and still contrived to miss the green traffic cone twice by that neat half-hour this diary keeps mentioning, and the white compact and the white pickup by the same margin. The orange traffic cone came and went without ever once standing where the orange cone stood. The blue pickup was at The Kona Road and, at the same hour, at The West Gate, sitting and then waiting; the orange barricade held its stripes, the red tail crossed, the white motorhome and the white travel waited in the order they arrived, and the silver cybertruck stayed angular about it.

At The Airport Road nothing moved at all, which is the correct behaviour for a car park in the small hours: the black minivan and the blue hatchback together again, the green off-roader making a third of them, the green signboard standing over the lot, the black boxy still with its suitcase. The grey lamp POST was at The Airport Road and, at the same hour, at The Jetty and The Old Harbour. At The Circus the red double-decker bus drove, waited and stood, and again failed to be in the square at the same moment as the silver drive; the black taxi passed; Petra stood. The silver hatchback was at The Western Road and, at the same hour, at The Airport Road, The Port and The Causeway, sitting mostly, where the silver bunch queued behind the white coach.

The Jetty's orange basket sat on wet concrete beside the yellow bucket and the orange tub, woven and plastic at once, entirely empty, sitting exactly as it sat before and intending, from all appearances, to go on. Elke stood in a black headscarf near the white sink. At The Old Harbour the white wheel and the white shed stood together four times over the red workboat at the quay where this diary once saw ARC Gloria berth and take visitors aboard. The River held only brown gold and the white lamp's silver streak. Mara and Nadia are still away. At The West Gate the grey booth has the white dodge next.

At The Jetty, in the evening, the orange basket and the orange crate sat side by side on wet concrete at the same moment, twice, both plastic, both woven-looking, both entirely empty, and neither of them did a single thing about it. The yellow bucket kept them company, being a mop for a while and then simply sitting. Selma stood nearby in grey shorts; the white dhoni lay canopied against the wall with the blue dhoni out beyond it, and the yellow ladder and the red canister stayed where they had been put. Iris was at The Kona Road and, at the same hour, at The Jetty, standing and then walking. John was at The Jetty, The Port and The Square. The Kona Road itself was empty for most of these hours, which is proper: the white lane running, the blue lamp lit, the yellow blaze of streetlights hard on black asphalt. Krung Thon Bridge had nothing at all, all stretch.

The Circus was awake through the whole afternoon. The red double-decker bus, still the most constant thing this diary has, drove and waited and stood, and managed to miss the black taxi and the red hatchback each by that half-hour it never seems to close. The black taxi and the red double did share the junction twice. Mara is back, walking with an umbrella; Nadia has not been seen at all. At The Harbour the white sailboat sat under the blue cover three times over, while the black metal and the grey mesh each came and went within half an hour of it and never once stood there together. At The Old Harbour the white articulated lorry turned across the yard with the grey hatchback passing behind — the same quay where this diary once saw ARC Gloria come in and open her decks.

At The Airport Road nothing moved: the black minivan and the blue hatchback parked together twice, the silver hatchback under the green signboard twice more. Elsewhere at Haneda a new satellite pier was opened to visitors before its first passengers — wood-lined, with real gates and a very long boarding bridge, built so tired aprons can be shut and earthquake-strengthened in stages while capacity still grows. A car park of vehicles sitting nose-in and a finished pier waiting for its opening day are both keeping still on purpose. At The Square the red tram is next along the rails.

At The Circus the red double-decker bus did what it does best: drove, waited, stood, and did it so often it set the tone for the whole day. Red double-decker bus 30 turned right, black car 139 turned with it once, and the black taxi and the white taxi threaded the same island of road. The bus and the black taxi shared the same moments more than once; the bus stood with Mara twice; Mara stood with the black taxi twice; Tomas passed through and just missed the main acts. Over in The Square the blue tram passed, and blue tram 6 passed again, with the black tent standing on the edge of it all. Tomas was at The Square and, at the same hour, at The Harbour, standing and at work, and Mara was at The Circus and, at the same hour, at The Jetty, walking with an umbrella.

The harbours had their pairs and almost-pairs too. At The Port Mara and Tomas were together more than once among a yellow container and a blue container doing the plain work of carrying. At The Harbour the blue sail kept its side of the wharf while Mara and Tomas arrived within the same half-hours and missed each other neatly, twice. The Old Harbour matched its white deck to its red cabin and set the red lifeboat alongside; Tomas was there as well. The Jetty had Iris twice, a green bowl plastic and ordinary, and the orange basket that sat as if built to keep count, square by square in its weave. Along the River the white foam moved under a blue hue. At Reykjavík harbour the British polar research ship RRS Sir David Attenborough tied up for a weekend stop while out on a Greenland ice-sheet expedition; it is part of a five-year project studying how the Greenland Ice Sheet affects the North Atlantic and the climate. The day met it halfway: baskets, decks and containers held and carried things; the ship held and carried a question.

Roads elsewhere were spare. The Causeway sent along a grey minivan, boxy and sure. The Kona Road had Bruno in three moods: standing, then running, then walking. The West Gate’s orange cone worked and queued; the blue pickup promised last time did not come. Lincoln Road stayed empty without complaint, and the bridge in Bangkok did nothing at all, which suited it. Blue tram 6 is about to turn through The Square.

The blue pickup, which was next in at The West Gate, did not come in. Nadia did, after several entries away: Nadia was at The Kona Road, at The Jetty and at The Circus. At The Jetty they were near Otto and the orange crate, which sat on the wet concrete five separate times, plastic, full of fish, in the company of the green tub, the blue bucket, the orange basket and the red mop — a great deal of shallow open vessel for one slab of quay, and every one of them earning its keep. Mara came back too, standing at The Circus beside the red double-decker stand, and missing the black taxi by about half an hour; the black taxi then missed the red double-decker stand by roughly the same margin, which is the sort of thing that junction arranges without being asked. Iris was at The Kona Road with Bruno, the red hatchback parked nose-in.

The Square worked all morning. The blue tram passed six times and twice shared the wet paving with the beige café and its umbrellas; the green tram ran once, the white coach waited, the yellow loader and the yellow excavator stood about doing what they do. John was at The Port and, at the same hour, at The Square, and missed the yellow excavator by half an hour. At The Port John stood with the white caravan while Tomas walked the apron and the yellow machinery kept still. The white minibus was at The Port and, at the same hour, at The Old Harbour. Grey lamp POST was at The Airport Road and at The West Gate, standing in both. The Airport Road moved nothing at all: the black minivan and the blue hatchback parked in the bays together twice, the green signboard above them. The Causeway was empty for a third of its night, the red traffic glowing at nobody.

At The Old Harbour, where the white wheel stands, a Colombian naval sailing ship tied up and let anyone who wanted walk aboard her — she trains cadets and shows the country's face in foreign ports. At The Harbour dozens of white sailboats sat moored with bare masts and the blue cover furled; the same day, a sailing ship that still works was open to whoever turned up, as the polar research ship was when this diary saw it dock. At The Square the blue tram is due in again.