She takes me out to look at a glassed-in notice board. ‘There’s a Banksy under this, but I mistakenly painted over it.’ We imagine the hidden Banksy, admiring its anonymity and understated gesture. Glass. Wood. Open Fridays. Later, he says, ‘You should have phoned. I told you to phone. I can’t answer for availability if you don’t phone. I told you this.’ Not like the wine shop owner, exact and knowledgeable. The dark bottles on shelves are a choir; I can hear them inside their drunken parts, harmonizing percentages of sun and rain. Gloucester Road light staggers in through the door, stands swaying, as I ask the man, ‘What would the Poles do with their crushed garlic? What steepness?’ ‘If we were only in Poland,’ the choir croons.