Have you ever looked into the mirror - and someone else with your face looks back out at you?

Saturday night in the rain. We said goodbye to gsw and Roo Sans LJ after partaking of Sinbad at the Ilford Cineworld; as they had eaten already and we were now ravenous.

Hair done. Makeup applied. And wearing silly and fashionable footwear - khaki stiletto timberland boots - and new grey-green linen trousers, and a satin grey-green top, bought in a giggly teenage-style shop last weekend with Chiara, choosing identical outfits whilst in some alternate universe, the boys saved the world (again).

forbinproject also had new clothes; a square-cut grey 70s-ish jacket that looked like weathered leather, grey snakeskin patterned boots, the rest black. He didn't look like the man I fell in love with some eighteen months ago.

Maybe that, and my own unfamiliar apparel, caused the weird. No drugs... not even alcohol... but the colours in the restaurant were somehow different, and my voice came from someone else's mouth, so it was easier to smile and gaze rather than talk. Sometimes the gaze became a stare. The texture of the chair fabric. Tactile. Woodgrain. Hanging on in there, but want, need, familiarity. Home? Yes, home.

So we caught the 129 bus and took the back seats, and the bus sang to us, a weird melodic piping. The windscreen wipers queeked rhythmically, but much louder than they should have done - creepily too high in this movie soundtrack's mix. Still wearing someone else's life.

Home - and the weird dissipated. Grounded again. Relief. Felt not least by him.

All today, the same bus has been singing as it goes past the window. About every couple of hours it calls out to us.