I read at breakfast, as does he. It is naughty, we weren’t allowed as children. He reads the papers online and I read books. I’ve just finished this last one, Trent’s Last Case by E.C. Bentley (as least I think that is his name). The radio adaptation was better. Not sure about novels from the 30s, though the last two pages gave me a jolt. Anyway there were two words from it that I asked him to look up. He likes it and so do I, though remembering them afterwards is always tricky. Cupidity and fan-tods. Cupidity is a kind of avarice, and fan-tods is about getting yourself into a lather. Nice.
When I walk home through the estate and round the back the new couple, I think they are Indian, always have the light on in their kitchen. Are they afraid of something?
We heard a clattering on one of the velux windows yesterday at breakfast. I thought it was rain coming. I walked over to look and saw a rook on the window bashing something against the pane. It startled me, it was so raw, so wild that I clapped my hands and it flew off. It left the thing it was bashing behind. It is still there, I think it is an animal bone.
The form that was huddled in the doorway of the florists was lying on the road this morning. I almost fell over it. It must have been a girl, it was so small. I wanted to wrap her up. To re-find the sleeping bag I gave away eight years ago and zip her up in it. She was folded up in blanket and a pizza box lay next to her. So she has some food, that is something. I thought of her when it began to rain, did she take shelter or did she wake soaked through? Why is there nowhere she can go?
Our 101 year old neighbour was sitting on a wall when I walked past to go and sit out in the sometime sun yesterday afternoon. She was taking a rest during her walk around the grounds. The other day her son took her to get a haircut. She and her hairdresser share the same Christian name. I wondered who her clients were. I saw her afterwards. It doesn’t look so different.
I put my notebook by my bed last night so that I could write down my dreams. I don’t like losing them. My writing in the dark and in my sleepy state leaves much to be desired. There were notes about a boxing match, and my sister’s car being smashed to bits by a tank for illegal parking (a car that was like our old one) and my feeling responsible, and about my long walking journey to find him and a job and turning up at a roadside cafe which was shut and making toast for myself, she was in another dream talking about her children looking so much like her and her saying a pet name she has for her and finally in another I was at a housing meeting and talking about my teaching and someone was saying how she didn’t like children. A mish mash, most of which makes sense to me. Fears and stuff. You know the kind. Then just before waking I heard another of those sentences. I wrote that down too, though this time it was more like a question and it was: Do you think naked is just made up?