Obadiah lived in a hut in the woods – but it was a luxury hut, a glam hut, a glut, as he called it. It
had a grass roof, it grew out of the hillside like a bunker with glass walls, it was all
ecologically-sourced wood and straw insulation and a special type of glass, solar panels. Wide
wooden decking extended out front, leading down to the garden and a reed-fringed pond.

Obadiah dressed in rags, but they were glamorous rags, hanging off his tall skinny body like a
multi-coloured waterfall, he had the elegance and stature of a Masai warrior (who figured,
indeed, in his heritage) he had his hair done up in a bun with braids looping out and wore
golden hooped earrings and necklaces of coloured glass and sea-shells and animal teeth, the
straps of elaborate leather sandals criss-crossed up his calves.

Some said he was the son of rich parents, some said he was a hedge-fund manager trading
stocks and bonds from a computer hidden in the basement, some said he must deal drugs, how
else could he afford it all and not seem to do anything?

Robby ran errands for Obadiah, he was a little skinny runt in high-top trainers and basketball
shorts and a hoodie, he was a good fellow at sneaking around, he was everywhere and
nowhere. One of those people who would materialise out of thin air just when you were
discussing a particularly ticklish item with your best friend, and then you realised that he had
heard every word.

Meanwhile, in the teeming streets of Dalston, North London, walked Hafsa and Alexander, hopelessly in love.
Hafsa said “We must get married, you must go to my father and ask permission”
“But Hafi, you are 25 years old.”
“Even so.”
So he went and asked, and her father said …

No.

He wanted a good Muslim son-in-law, not this pasty-faced atheist nincompoop, poor as a church
mouse. Dimitry would be ideal, a good boy, son of rich parents, from Russia to be sure, but he
attended mosque every Friday.

Dimitry doted on Hafsa, he adored her.

But Hafsa loved Alex.

Helen was Hafsa’s best friend.
Helen loved Dimitry, but Dimitry had left her to pursue Hafsa, as his parents advised.

Now what to do?

Alexander was not rich. One day he went to Lidl, where, in the middle bargains section he found
a two-person tent, only eight pounds!

“Hafsy darling look what I’ve got”, he held up the green nylon cylinder.
“What is it?”
“It’s a tent, it was a bargain, we can elope, we can visit my aunt who lives on the other side of
the forest”
“What forest?”
They lived, as I said, in Dalston.
“Epping Forest, she lives in Loughton.”
“Where the hell is Loughton?”
“Exactly, it’s a trip into the unknown, it’s romantic.”
“How do you know your aunt will let us stay?”
“Well, it’s my aunt Julie, she has a drink problem, we’ll take her some Vodka”
“What’s the tent for?”
“To camp, in the forest, on the way.”
“But I don’t like walking, it will be cold”.
“Hafsa, sweetness, it’s the middle of Summer, tomorrow is the longest day, the shortest night,
it’s going to be warm, we can leave after dinner, then your parents won’t miss you until the
morning. We’ll head off through the woods together, the setting sun behind us, a new world
ahead of us!”

“Oh Alex, you darling, you are so full of romance, how could I not love you. Yes, let’s do it, let’s
elope, walk through the forest by moonlight, camp in the woods, take refuge with your tipsy
auntie.”

Such plans cannot remain secret.
Hafsa, desperate to share her excitement, texted Helen.
Helen, desperate to get his approval, texted Dimitry.
Dimitry texted back “I’m going to follow them.”
Helen decided “I’m going to follow Dimitry”.

Now they all visited Lidl, separately, to stock up on bargain trekking supplies.
You see, up to then, they rarely had reason to leave Dalston, or at least Hackney. For them the
countryside was Victoria Park. Hackney Marshes were the Amazon Delta.
Eight o’clock that evening found them all on platform two at Dalston Kingsland station, hiding
from each other in hooded waterproofs (only twelve pounds, packable), awaiting the 8:10 to
Chingford, for that’s where the forest begins (or at least the golf course, which is next to the
forest).

Alexander, though poor, was resourceful and had loaded a route into the sat-nav on his
smartphone. From Chingford station he and Hafsa set off confidently, one peering at the phone
the other guiding him to avoid crashing with other pedestrians. Dimitry followed, surreptitiously
hopping in and out of doorways and ducking behind street furniture. Helen plodded behind,
pondering the things we do for love.

They crossed the golf course with the evening sun behind them, it was pleasantly warm. The
last few golfers were strolling back to the clubhouse. At last the first pair arrived at the scrubby
oak trees marking the edge of Epping Forest. They noticed, in a dip to the left, a curious house
that emerged from a slope, with a grass roof. In the garden a tall black guy with a fancy hairdo
was chatting to a little chap in a camouflage hoodie.
From here they could see the woodland stretching ahead of them to the horizon and beyond,
seemingly for miles and miles.
“How far is it now?” said Hafsa. “I’m tired”
Alex had programmed the sat-nav for the heart of the forest, where he planned to camp for the
night, snug in that little tent. “It’s not far now,” he said. “Here, have some mango smoothie” he
handed her a fancy plastic bottle,

“It was only 90p! See it has a pouring spout and an integrated belt loop”
She took a swig and began to feel better.
“Oh Alex, you’re always so thoughtful, I do love you sweetie, where do we go now? You lead the
way.”

A few minutes later Dimitry crested the slope above the grass roof of the hut, closely followed by
Helen, who had caught him up.
“Dimi, darling, why are you chasing that Bengali princess, we were so good together before you
took it into your head to love her. It’s all your father’s doing, telling you how rich her dad is, you
don’t love her really, there are just pound signs popping up in your eyeballs, I can see them.”
“It’s what my Dad wants, we respect our parents in my family, we don’t all hate each other like
your lot.”

“But Dimi it’s us that matters, we must be true to ourselves, it’s the only way to be happy my
love, don’t you remember how happy we were, walking and talking in Victoria Park, our trips to
the movies, that weekend when you came to stay at mine?”
Dimitry stopped, remembering, but it was too easy with Helen.
“Come on we’ve got to keep going or we’ll lose them.”

Down in the garden Obadiah was handing a plastic bag of white pills to Robby, each one
marked with a pale blue lower-case letter e.
“Listen, Titania has split, we had a argument, she went off into the woods wiv that trans lot,
tree-huggers, veggie lot, I want to get her back, before she get some idea of leaving for good.
Put a few of these in her water bottle, she’ll fall in love with everyone and go sex-crazy, a night
of that with her lezzy friends and she’ll soon return to me, out of sheer shame.”
“No probs bro,I know where they hang out, no worries.”
“And Robby, them two that just passed on the hill there, miserable couple, give them a few too,
cheery them up a bit!”

Robby disappeared into the woods. First he headed to the clearing where he knew that Titania,
Obadiah’s girlfriend, would be laying back discoursing with her transgender crew, or cooking
some strange veggie stew over a primus stove. Without being seen he distributed half of the
pills amongst water-bottles and the screw-top bottles of cheap Lambrusco wine that the crew
favoured.
Now for fun with the tourists. He found them together, all four of them now arguing fiercely, he
dived into the melee.

“Hey brothers, brothers and sisters, he-ey. There a problem here? This am my wood here, you
know that? This my place, you sharing my land people.”
Surprised, and a little fearful of this camouflaged midget dancing hip-hop around them, the
arguing couples were silenced.
“Look, you staying here the night? What that?”
“It’s my tent” said Alex, peering through the gloom at the tangled mess of green nylon and
twisted blue fibre-glass tent poles on the floor.
“I haven’t finished putting it up yet.”
“You won’t get me in that thing” piped up Hafsa, “I’ve got my bivvy bag.” She unfurled a sheet of
plastic-coated silver foil and folded it around her shoulders, glowing in the moonlight.
“Oh Hafsa, you are the goddess of the moon” said Dimitry,
“Oh my glittering Diana” said Alexander.
“Oh my godfathers!” said Helen.

“Don’t need no tent,” said Robby “summer’s night, warm innit, no dew tonight, look, settle down
on this bank here, come, sit. It smell good don’t it, wild thyme, roses too, sweet. Let’s have a
party tho’, got any food?”
They sat down on the springy grass of the bank, the smell of the thyme and the musk roses
calmed them, the boys rummaged in their rucksacks, pulled out packages.
“Hey, now we cookin’, drinkies?” asked Robby.
“Well, there is this Vodka, it was for my auntie, but …”
“Hey, me do the cocktails, where that food man?”

As he led proceedings Robby popped numbers of little pills into the sandwiches and cakes and
made easy-drinking cocktails of Vodka and fruit juice.
Gradually the couples realised that they had nothing to argue about, that all was well, that they
loved each other more than they had ever realised before.

Things slowed down, things speeded up, under the shining moon the night expanded.

Then there was conflict.
Somehow Alexander lost interest in Hafsa and wanted Helen, more than anything in the world.
Now Dimitry wanted Helen too, more than anything in the world. Helen thought they were taking
the mickey and scorned them both, she had a fight with Hafsa. Alex then defended Hafsa,
Dimitry defended Helen.

Then there was love.

Later their memories of the night were confused and varied; they had wandered through the
trees, roamed back onto the golf course, danced barefoot in the sand of the bunkers, rolled
voluptuously across the soft greens, and laid staring at the starry sky.

One thing they all agreed on, at some point they had passed a procession, a large half-naked
woman with long dreadlocks, extraordinary gold piercings, tattoos, and such a gentle smiling
face, had been leading a Donkey, adorned with garlands of marigolds and attended by a troupe
of sylph-like androgenous elves.

How much of that short night had been a dream, how much had been real, they never found
out.

They awoke huddled on the platform of Chingford rail station. They slouched onto the first train
going south and collapsed into adjoining seats, each girl with her head on the shoulder of their
boy, each boy clasping his girl, Helena with Dimitry, Hafsa with Alexander. Back at Dalston
Kingsland they emerged from the station to find Hafsa’s father standing there with the Imam.

The two couples walked up to the two men “We are getting married” they said in unison.