I resume my walk down Stanyan Street, puzzling for a moment over Dawud’s words. His jovial exterior doesn’t fool me because I know he’s led a hard life. He’s been divorced, he suffers from back pain, and Amirah has told me that it was political trouble that caused their mother to send him out of Ramallah. I imagine him as an angry teenager, throwing stones at Israeli soldiers; but nothing more serious, for how else would they have given him refuge in America?

‘You look awesome,’ says a stranger, startling me from my thoughts.

‘Well so do you,’ I smile, noting the man’s carefully manicured lime-green fingernails. I enjoy this sort of attention from San Francisco’s gentlemen. It’s one of the things that I love about the city. And because of men like this, men not sexually attracted to women, I find this city gentler than most. And what’s more, here in San Francisco, both men and women seem to admire my sense of style. Whereas if I were back in London or certain parts of New York, where buba and gele are commonplace, I know that I wouldn’t turn heads, not at this age at least. And back in Nigeria, where so many are dressed like me, I wouldn’t draw any attention at all. So I treasure this city with its bright morning sun and brilliant blue skies. I love the way the fog rolls in late in the day, tumbling over Sutro Forest, to cloak my part of the city in soft white mist. But it’s the people of San Francisco, so often quirky but always friendly, that makes it feel like home to me. And then I hear a car that roars the way mine does. Which reminds me. What the hell will I do if I don’t pass the eye test? It’s not the first time I’ve fretted over this, but previously I’ve always managed to talk myself out of worrying. I turn left now on Parnassus to sit for a moment at the bus stop and catch my breath. I perch on the edge of a red plastic seat, clutching the tulips tightly to my chest, considering my options – public transportation or a chauffeur. Is that really all there is? And public transport isn’t as convenient as it is in London. I’ve had drivers in the past, but in a different context, different country. In San Francisco a driver will be expensive. And anyway, I want to remain independent – to be able to take off whenever I feel like it. It’s not just a question of getting from A to B, but the freedom to do as I choose.

On the man’s backpack is a tangle of straps and tags flapping angrily in the wind and when the puppy stops to squat I pass discretely in front of them both, keeping my distance in case of lice or some sudden outburst. I expect him to smell badly but he doesn’t, and, glancing back, I see that he’s actually a she and shockingly young to be carrying such a load. Seventeen or eighteen judging from the slenderness of the girl’s arms; except that when I stop to look again and glimpse those steely, tiger-blue eyes, I’m no longer sure. She could be in her thirties, maybe even forties. I watch as the woman stops, reaches into a nearby trashcan, whips out some newspaper, and tears off a sheet before turning back to where the puppy’s just been. She scoops up the steaming black pellets then chucks them in the trash. ‘Come on, Stupid,’ she mutters to the dog.

‘You okay, love?’ I ask.

‘Yep,’ she says, then turns at Fredrick Street and yells ‘you fucker!’ to a young man just arrived with skateboard in hand. A flurry of insults rain down on the poor man’s head for having left her on her own to deal with the puppy and backpack. Startled, but then bemused and wishing I’d had more of the woman’s spirit when I was younger, I say to the man in the car that has stopped for me at the zebra crossing, ‘Did you hear that woman? Did you see how tough she was?’ To which the driver only waves me on, but I’ve just looked up and spotted a stracciatella sky, dappled blue and white. ‘Consider the birds in the sky,’ my father used to say, ‘that neither sow nor reap and yet your heavenly father feeds them.’ So why worry about a driving licence? I ask myself.

‘Cross the fucking street, would you lady!’ shouts the man in the car.

The bakery on Cole Street is my favourite because of its walnut bread and the pain au raisin that’s not too sticky, not too sweet and almost as good as the ones we used to buy in France when we lived on the rue de what-was-it-called in the 15th arrondissement. But it’s not just the food that’s good here: it’s also the chance I have to chat with friends. Here, for example, is where I meet Alonzo and Mike who park in front of the fire hydrant where parking is not generally permitted. They swagger in, hands on hips, just like in the movies with baton, handcuffs and pistols swinging from their waists. They tuck their crackling radio devices into chest pockets while chatting to those in the cafe. I say Alonzo and Mike because they work as a team, but it’s Mike that I’m closest to. He’s writing a novel, you see, so we talk about books. When he’s done with his first draft, I’ve promised to read it and give him feedback. He helped me, years ago, get out of a ticket for an alleged traffic offence. Bless him.

The incident happened at month-end, which, if you’re familiar with San Francisco, is when the city goes on the prowl for extra money. This would explain why the cop who pulled me over was hiding round the corner, trying to catch people out for traffic violations. I thought I had come to a full stop at the four-way intersection, but I didn’t argue. I wasn’t as fearful as I would’ve been were I younger, but I still knew better than to court a policeman’s anger when he repeatedly asked me if I was the owner of such an expensive car. I could tell he was suspicious, so I sat quietly as he wrote out the ticket. A few days later when I saw Mike, I recounted what had happened. ‘Let me take care of it,’ he offered. And he did. And at first I felt triumphant. It was like being back in Nigeria where, because I knew someone, I was able to work the system. Mike’s parents came from Italy and I’ve always thought there is much that binds Italians with Nigerians. Not that I approve of corruption, but in this case, where I knew I’d done no wrong, I felt vindicated. And yet the following month when I went to the courts to hear that my case was dismissed, instead of feeling happy, I felt ashamed. So many young black men were at the courts – some of them going out of their way to give me a hand up the stairs. They even let me pass in front of them in the queue to get my papers. They gave me preferential treatment as they would their mother or grandmother and yet I didn’t deserve it. I had connections. I had ‘le piston’ to get me out of there, but they possessed no such social capital. They didn’t have the means or the connections to wriggle out of paying fines as I had. Many, I could tell, were already stuck in the system and would never get out.

Mike isn’t here today, but there’s the white fellow who always wears Sikh turbans and silver bangles with one of his stupid birds on his shoulder. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to forgive me. I cannot, as a good Nigerian, approve of such a thing. If Selvon’s Sir Galahad had been around, I bet he would’ve eaten all of these birds for dinner. It’s bad enough that the street pigeons feel free to waddle in through the cafe door and that the bird lovers won’t shoo them out, even when they keep returning, greedily waddling back for seconds with their heads jerking to a cocky hip-hop beat. So that’s bad enough, but this business of bringing birds into a restaurant on your arm or shoulder, well I really can’t be dealing with that. No Nigerian would. Nor an Italian, I’m sure.

I’d come to the bakery to talk to my new friend, the cashier, but because she isn’t here I buy some bread, linger for some minutes in case someone else arrives. When nobody does, I leave. I was hoping to invite my friend to the birthday party because I find that parties in which everyone is the same age aren’t much fun. I can’t have a party just for older people, and in any case, chronological age aside, I don’t feel old. Or at least I didn’t until I started noticing the absence of younger friends, which got worse once I stopped teaching. And that’s another problem with this city. It’s harder to make young friends here than it is in places like Lagos or Delhi. In San Francisco, people tend to stick to those of their own age set. And though I know that my friend, Sunshine, will come – one youngster won’t be enough. I was also hoping to give my new friend some tulips, but now I suppose I’ll have to keep both. I look around, thinking of the young homeless woman and then, for a moment, of Mrs Dalloway and her delphiniums. Mrs Dalloway chose stiff and stately flowers for her party whereas I’ve opted for tulips that arch and curve and keep growing after being cut. Fairly apt I’d say, on a day that started off with the DMV and all that jazz.

I take Cole Street home and on my way back I say hello to Mrs Wong who lives at the corner of Alma and Cole. At this time of year old Mrs Wong, dressed in bedroom slippers and pink dressing gown, spends much of the day sweeping leaves. Every few minutes the wind whips up new leaves and blows more off the trees. Mrs Wong’s appearance is unfortunate – her terry cloth dressing gown and her hunched posture make her look much older than she probably is. I offer her my extra bunch of flowers which she accepts with effusive thanks, dropping her broom to hug the tulips and then me. I smile and draw back my shoulders. Nobody will ever call me a little old lady. When I get home, I punch in the code and push my way through the heavy front door, resting for a brief moment to catch my breath before climbing the stairs. There’s a box on my doorstep filled with bright yellow Meyer lemons. ‘Such a lovely man,’ I smile for I know who this is. My neighbour from downstairs is persistent; I must give him credit for that. But he’s a Republican and he owns a gun so he stands no chance with me. No chance. I balance the bread and the flowers on top of the box of lemons and then with my free hand I search for the keys in both pockets of my bra, only to find that the front door is already open. Forgetful me! I pick everything up, glance around to make sure nobody else is here, then carry the box to the kitchen table and select a lemon to rub between my fingers. I love the fresh smell of citrus so I place some in my white fruit bowl and take them to the living room where I set them on a shelf.

As you will see, I no longer organize my books alphabetically, or arrange them by colour of spine, which was what I used to do. Now the books are arranged according to which characters I believe ought to be talking to each other. That’s why Heart of Darkness is next to Le Regard du Roi, and Wide Sargasso Sea sits directly above Jane Eyre. The latter used to sit next to each other but then I thought it best to redress the old colonial imbalance and give Rhys the upper hand – upper shelf. I turn from my books for a moment, distracted by a noise, but it’s only the familiar thwack of tennis balls and the shudder of basketballs against backboards coming from the primary school across the street. Coming back to the bookshelf I pull out a book at random and a postcard falls out. It’s one of his, of course. Fulani woman with bronze earrings. I flip it over again and trace each crafted line with my forefinger, then bring it to my nose and smile. ‘Eu te amo. Antonio,’ he’d signed, with the arrow of the last ‘t’ pointing achingly off the page. I sigh, trying to remember what he looked like. I remember his eyes, which were light brown. And his hands, I remember those. I remember the first time he touched me, taking my hand under cover of dark. We sat in the cinema watching Lord only knows what, for his thumb was tracing circles in the centre of my palm and it took all my concentration to stop from moaning out loud. He was always so gentle, except when he wasn’t, which was sometimes even more thrilling. But it was his words above all else that drew me to him and his love letters, brimming with tenderness and desire.

I return to the kitchen and make myself some tea. Standing by the sink in tadasana, I gaze across the city, I think of Mrs Manstey in her solitary New York apartment. And then as the neighbour’s washing machine thumps to the end of a spin cycle, I hear the noise again; only this time the sound is unmistakable. I’m surprised at first, not in the noticing of it but in the wave of desire that grips my body as I put down my green Harrods mug and step quietly out of the kitchen into the living room. The whimpering has grown louder, as does the quickening thud that gives rhythm to the couple’s lovemaking in the apartment next door. I make my way to the couch where I lie on the futon, smiling as I sweep around my mind for a suitable person with whom to enjoy this unexpected surge of feeling. It’s Dawud that joins me first, smelling of falafel and lilac as we lie together, legs intertwined. I kick a cushion out of the way and then it’s the neighbour that takes Dawud’s place, his calloused hands gently cupping my breasts as he massages my nipples. But soon, inevitably, it’s Antonio whose fingers slip between my thighs, his breath tickling my neck. I close my eyes now as I whisper his name and then, letting go, I abandon him for the warmth that my touch has kindled. Only later, when I’m lying still, do I think again of Antonio and wish that he were here lying next to me. The two of us, pressed together. I bring my arm down from where I’m surprised to find it, flung above my head, and clasp my hands across my breasts. I must have then dozed for a little while because when I awake, everything around me is quiet. I get up, re-tie my wrappa and plump a cushion back into shape. I find my glasses on the kitchen counter and smile as I catch my reflection across the belly of my silver kettle. I peer closer, remembering how Antonio used to call my eyes his ‘love crumbs’. Poetry, he told me, stolen from Cummings. As I wait for the water to boil, I remember some of our secrets and I miss him. But then I remind myself that perhaps it’s less him and more the idea of him that I’m missing. How often I have felt lonely even when with someone. Lonelier sometimes than when I’m on my own. I lift the teabag out, squeeze it and plop it down on the saucer by the side of the kettle. Gently, like the touch of Antonio’s thumb, I stir and stir until there’s no more sugar at the bottom of my mug. ‘Wanna little sugar in my bowl,’ I hum, dancing playfully towards the bedroom to take another look at my new shoes.

This year the shoes are red and suede and although they’re not cheap, or rather because they’re not cheap, they’re gorgeous. ‘Absolutely gorgeous,’ I whisper, freeing my hands in order to try them on. I have two traditions when it comes to birthdays. The first is to buy shoes, and this year’s shoes have a sensible wedge heel with a peek-a-boo toe. On the outside they’re a deep, plush scarlet red, and because it’s a big birthday, I match the shoes with my black chiffon dress and double string of pearls. Pearls that have accompanied me to all manner of places – from lunch with Mrs Gandhi to tea at Buckingham Palace, to this little place where I really must get round to replacing the broken glass in my full-length mirror. I climb onto the ledge of the bath and hold firmly to the edge of the door to balance. This way I can see both the shoes and the dress in the bathroom mirror and imagine, right there, where I place the palm of my hand, the spot for a tattoo. For this is my second tradition, to do something new and daring with each passing year. Last year it was scuba diving, and the year before learning to swim. This year it’s the tattoo and it’s not just the fact of getting a tattoo but it’s where I intend to have it done that thrills me. I’d decided that something on the wrist or ankle would be too ordinary and this was my reason for wanting to talk to my bakery friend. I was hoping to ask her what she thought of bougainvillea – of a long fine thread of it winding its way up my back. Was that a good idea? It was also the reason for purchasing tulips in two different colours, wanting to know which shade she’d recommend or whether she’d suggest no colour at all – just the regular black. Was it black or dark green that most tattoos came in these days? And what colour would look best on my darker skin? My bakery friend has a Chinese dragon that spreads across her back with its feet perched on her thigh. She showed it to me unprompted one day, and explained how it represented her family’s heritage. She said she’d had it done in three sittings to manage the pain. I wonder how long it will take to do my flowers. Not long, I hope, because I don’t like needles. I cringe at the thought of all those childhood vaccinations for nasty diseases. Tetanus. Typhoid. Diphtheria. Yellow Fever. I wonder now if it might be better to choose a design that’s smaller. Perhaps I should just have a small sprig of bougainvillea – something like the size of one of Dawud’s gifts – inked at the base of my neck. I’d never have the courage for something as big as a dragon, but perhaps I could have a tiny little blossom, symbolic of the tropical climes that I so love. Yes, I’m beginning to think that this is a good idea. What could be more perfect to mark my seventy-fifth than this? I twist for a better view and then, in mid-twist, I slip.