22nd June 2018, London.
The angel flew in low over the treetops; the downdraft of its powerful wings disturbed the older branches of the trees and made them creak and groan. High above the protesting trees, the landing lights of planes could be seen twinkling in the dark sky. The angel banked hard, stopped in the sky for a second, like a white smudge against the darkness, and dropped to the ground like a stone, spreading its wings widely to break its fall just in time and landing softly. It folded its wings back, ran its powerful hands through its hair, and checked that the new packet of condoms and the lube were still in the front pocket of its favourite jeans.
Everything was just where it should be, so the angel – all 6’9’’ of him – walked barefoot over the grass and into the quiet of
