playing September Song, pad out to the canal. But Riverman’s lost to the quiet waterways, his old boat gone and nothing left but a slur of dead weeds and ripped earth where it broke free. Could be a month or a year before he returns. He once told me I could always write to him at the Blue Anchor, Hammersmith, if I needed him. A friendly salt would leave the card behind the bottles until he blew in for a pint, or pass it upriver on the boats. He doesn’t do tech, Riverman, doesn’t trust the digital flicker. This town feels more friendless and forsaken than ever.
