Not long ago, I shared in a truly spontaneous and beautiful night. To celebrate a university friend’s birthday I went into London proper, to join him, his nearest, and his dearest for a night on The Town. I arrived late, having just seen my brother off at the airport, but was nonetheless welcomed in with open arms and even more open hearts.

I caught up with people I had not seen in a while; laughed much with all those around; and had, as evenings in a pub go, a very pleasant time indeed. Plans had been made beforehand to go out clubbing, to a cool venue called Fold in Canning Town. It had been a while since I had a proper night out, and it was a good friend’s birthday, so why the hell not – I bought a ticket, and along I went.

The music was heavy, the lights intense, and I was having a good dance. It was nice to be with my friends but, truth be told, they all had their partners with them, and I felt strangely lonely. “Never feel as lonely as you do in a crowd”, and all that.

 Having had a long day prior though, my energy levels started dropping off, and I was considering heading home. To chill out and pass some time, I sat down in the room between the dance floor and the smoking area – a kind of purgatorial freak-show, a zoo of creatures who have long left themselves behind.

Sober, slightly bored, and alone, I gently looked around the room. And then, like magic, a friend came and sat beside me. I say a friend – he was someone I had met a couple of times at university, but with whom I had, in fact, spent little time with. He was a cool guy, who’d done cool stuff, and who had previously made a lasting impression upon me. An air of aloofness, blended with an intense moral seriousness, and evident compassion.

We talked and laughed, and ended up sending a two-man mission for the rest of the night, which then continued into the entirety of the following day. A day of laughter, and lightness, and spontaneity, and open acceptance of whatever was thrown at us. Of deep, explorative, naked conversation.

He writes, very beautifully, and whilst sat looking down over the Turbine Hall in the Tate Modern, we both resolved to write a few hundred words about the day and the preceding night.

What follows is an excerpt from that writing. I hadn’t originally written it with the intention of sharing, but it was full of feeling, and honest expression, and I think it belongs here. Much of it may seem nonsensical, or at least entirely incomprehensible, and it does not come close to communicating the glory of that magnanimous day.

But I think, regardless of the literal interpretation, it gets at least some of the way to communicating how it felt.

…

Men worthy of trust are hard to come by. But, in my experience, there are certain men invariably worthy of one’s trust.

One type are the kindly men, who sit down with your weary self in the chilling-room of a club on an industrial estate. Who bare their soul, tell secrets of former flames with Shakespearean names, and tenderly water an adjacent plantified Marlon Brando.

Another type are the men whose very names demand trust. An example? A man named Toes, for one, who looked exactly like what a man named Toes would look. Another? Our newly discovered, dear Marlon. Named after the actor, but who at this moment looks more like the lovechild of The Happy Mondays’ Bez, and the Machinist-era-Christian Bale.

Lifted by these caricatures of session-life, Anspach and Hobday smiled and laughed, and felt a whole lot better about themselves and the night in front of them. Reclaiming the energy that had been lost, they stepped off a ledge, into a land of openness.

Two-steps ensued, Mary was made un-Lost, and Marlon arose from his slumber. As did The Sun, splintering the retreating darkness with azure, fuchsia and peach, and gestures at cutting were made.

“Home?”; “Yeah, probably time”; “Or, we could go get a hot chocolate first?”. With these magic words, the door to formless impulsivity was swung wide open.

 “Have you ever been on the Skyline cable-car? I think it opens in an hour”. “That sounds lovely”. A journey to nowhere, a soaring ride with its head in cloud. An ebbing ascension and a flowing descent. It is an attraction ripe with metaphor.

Bound by commitment, by time, by plans and by cultural normativity, so many days (months, even) are passed in a seeming haze. What a joy it is to, on rare occasion, eschew such bondage.

A steaming hot chocolate and a buttery-soft almond croissant; flying up a descending escalator, with faces split by grins; two mochas on the South Bank, blessed by an omniscient, smiling sage; ten satsumas, apparating into pockets, but rarely into the hands of receptive receivers.

“I was at that age”, writes Laurie Lee, “which feels neither strain nor friction, when the body burns magical fuels, so that it seems to glide in warm air, about a foot off the ground, smoothly obeying its intuitions”. In such a manner we flowed, each moment filled with enough wonder and tales to burst the banks of Lake Baikal.

Every dog must have its day, and every journeyman must take his rest. The Great Turbine Hall, presided over by two lauding philosopher kings, provides the setting for a banquet of thought. Feasting on Lumian Forest Fruits and liberated conversation, rabbit holes of human experience are tumbled through.

Tales of brothers and lovers, of mothers and tramps. Of spitters and hikers, of travels and camps. Of the gear in our packs and knowledge imbibed, of running from home, of love starry-eyed. Without judgement or critique, damnation or fear, experience was expressed about all we hold dear. What a joy it is, to be awake to a day. I’m very glad to be here, and for more I do pray.

So often I can feel existence slipping through my hands, like the finest grains of sand. What are we to do, knowing these memories are soon to be lost in time, like tears in rain?

I don’t really have a good answer to that. But I do know, I’d like each day to be as glorious as this one.

Days when life itself is audibly humming with vibrancy and spontaneity. When the rain is enlivening, and wonder is plentiful. When we smile at the void and the void smiles back. When the spell of dissatisfaction is broken, and we awaken to a world of magic and profundity.

My gratitude burns bright, and the memories glisten clear.

With great respect, Sir,

Your most humble servant.

S. Hobday