What happens if you talk to a stranger in London?

I broke the golden rule and it has been a very wild ride

- Munya Chawawa

One of the first things we get told as children is to “stay away from strangers”. Or, if you’re me, “stop sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night to eat butter out the fridge”. As such, we make it our life’s mission to avoid any and all contact with people we do not know, for fear that we might make an enemy, or even worse… a friend? Never has this been more true than right here in London — the city of passing ships. But today, I’d like to challenge the concept of stranger danger by telling you about my mate, Peter.

If you’ve ever passed through south London, specifically the East Dulwich end of business, then you’ve probably met Peter. It is even more likely that you have enjoyed Peter’s front garden (not a euphemism — the man’s 85 for God’s sake). It’s truly breathtaking — an untouched utopia spilling out onto the street. Sunflowers soar up into the clouds, dahlias dance about in the sun and roses nod gracefully at every passer-by. He’s created a one-man Chelsea Flower Show. Oh, and it’s a hit with the ladies. Not just the Doreens and Maureens; I’ve seen Peter casually leaning up against some chrysanthemums, chatting to my dream girl on several occasions. Man’s got that botanical rizz.

My first proper encounter with Peter involved him getting my name spectacularly wrong. If they did Emmys for mispronunciations, he’d be on stage in a tux clutching it. Having told him the previous day that my name was Munya, I strolled past his garden, his head popped up from behind his newspaper and he confidently chirped, “All right, Mumbi!”. In that moment, I knew I liked Peter. Not because he had renamed me as some sort of cartoon hippo, but because he’d made an effort. And, perhaps more significantly, he had bothered to say hello.

Tigers and tall stories