Bedford shines in detailing intimate human connection; those epiphanic shocks that cut through affectations of irony and disinterest: a relationship that ends between an art gallery and the sale of a bike. The death of the narrator’s father (quietly, poignantly handled)
A lot has been written about the rhythms of cities and what it means to walk through urban streets, to follow the maze of signs with their imperatives. Stop. Cross. Give way. How we each become part of a city’s natural pace; how we become its blood cells rushing towards the pulsing heart of the city centre. It made me think about the idea of mapping memory on to the city, and the ways in which the city in turn leaves its mark on you.