Opening Lines

IT’S a lovely word: eavesdrop. I imagine a swallow pretending to spruce up its nest as it skitters along a centuries-old roof-overhang, listening to the conspirators make plans their inside the window.

What does she hear? Who will she tell? Of course more often than not eavesdropping means a man hacking into the voicemail messages of a celebrity.

My eavesdropping is more benign and consists solely of serendipitous snatches of conversation that are audible as I pass strangers in the street.