Husenfulhu has been talking in English at me – and I do mean AT. He has only been in England for a week, but the consonants are softer, the accent amorphous, and the diction borders on the extravagant. I know he is doing it to wind me up.

“Certainly, if the weather permits, we may venture as far as Hamsptead Heath, perhaps East Finchley…”

I lean in: “Surely you are taking the piss now.”

He sinks back into his chair chuckling, getting his way in the end.

We are at an Italian restaurant near Trafalgar square. Because of the holy hunger we had been labouring in, it would be foolish to even try to judge if the food is good.

Sampaafulhu peruses the menu. Having resigned to the eventuality that she was going to throw away at least half the food, she now looked for the pasta that was easiest to wipe off a plate, the first to yield to a kitchen rinser. Yes, she was after the lowest carbon footprint.

“So when did you realise you were a special boy?” I ask.

“Fuck off,” Husenfulhu says indignant.

When he realises I am sincere, he says “Pre-school”.

“What were the signs?”

“I knew I was smarter. I could make anyone angry simply by speaking. I also learned I was quick to get angry. But that realisation came much later”.

I have never met anyone who enjoys people the way he does. When it comes to human beings “love” and “hate” are not parameters Husenfulhu is bound to– he operates on a deeper plane. A plane much funnier, much hard to detect. His interest is the sub-surface of what people say and hear.

Being also a vast repository of oddities, he is also the most fine-tuned to them. He is the keenest student of things that are “just off”. And there lies the crux of our friendship, which could border on the homoerotic if he loses some weight.

A street musician plays at some distance. “What would they do if ‘Stand by Me’ or ‘To Make You Feel My Love’ had not been written? Maybe they’ll go hungry… or black and blue… or crawling down the avenue…” I ask, to no one in particular. Maybe just to hear my own voice.

“Someday they will find a medication for whatever it is that you have,” Husefulhu reprimands me.

When the bill is brought, Husenfulhu says to the immigrant waiter: “I am a food critic”.

The whole of London seems to go silent.

“Well, back home!” Husenfulhu says desperately; the waiter nods and swiftly walks away propelled by sheer awkwardness.

We eat and move away from the public square, where a re-enactment of crucifixion is on-going. Sampaafaalhu hates violence that is not directed by an auteur filmmaker.

I have recently acquired a camera and have been carrying it with us. I have been using the words ‘aperture’ and ‘field of view’ generously. The couple have been patient.

I take a photo of a stone building and show it to Husenfulhu: “The exposure is… uhh… indecent”.

by Saththaaru, reporting from London.