Not the flash of light on skin but the red glow of cigarettes from crowds gathered in doorways, flicking ash and cigarette butts in little meteor showers onto this footpath, into the canal, as I walk along, towards the all-night shops, just killing time, there's bursts of music, light from pubs and curtained windows, rising up into the frigid November air and then a pair of swans, nestling beneath the trailing branches of some shadowy tree, white feathers luminous. I stop and cross the canal, unsteady on the dangerous lock gate bridge we sat and kissed on once.