Ice Cream

Dad, are we going to have an ice cream NOW?

I am sitting in on our seat in the wall facing the sea with my eyes shut listening to him. It’s a little boy, his hand in his father’s, bleating, begging, cajoling as he skips his way along the prom. The sun is warm, glorious. There are too many cars, engines hot, insistent, impatient.

At last, sand.

Another child’s voice. This time an Asian boy. He has just got out of his mother’s Mercedes and has rushed to the railing. Look, Mum, he says, sand.

I am tense, again. Rigid with fearfulness for I have begun writing my memoir again. An uncomfortable process this beginning again, like drawing, you know what you are capable of doing but you have to go through such clumsiness to get there.

I’ve finished Jenny Diski’s book with Afterwords by her partner and daughter. Sadness.

On Sunday listening to Poetry Extra on 4 Extra. They talk of the poet Edward Thomas as having no confidence, that is until he became a poet. Robert Frost told him to. They read his poem Adlestrop over and over again. It is effective, doing that. That layer upon layer of repetition.

The sun is coming. I need some coffee after an early shift at work. A hirsute man coming in to the studio to talk about drilling holes in glaciers at the base of Everest. A taciturn man. Black coffee, please, make it short. No coat.

Earlier I disturbed a seagull pecking at a black dustbin bag of rubbish. It was tearing, ripping the plastic, its wing hanging down on the ground, a little distrait in its fury. As I walked past, it jerked up, taking flight, cross.

A busy day. No chance of writing, of solving the puzzle of what I began yesterday. Heigh ho.