Pale Blue Hot Pants

They’d promised rain and wind and yet there they were in what are ostensibly summer clothes pouring out of the nightclubs and bars. I watched as a particularly pneumatic girl with long, blond, peroxided tresses skipped across the road, her hand firmly clasped in that of black lad, with a huge grin on his face. I’ve got the cherry on top, his smile seemed to say. Look at me. Look at her. And I did. She with that bottom, and those voluptuous thighs barely contained in a pair of pale-blue hot pants.

I love the radio. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I love it. The things that one just comes across. What a richness, what a joy. Yesterday there was a programme about collecting. Stamp collecting in particular. The British Guyanese Magenta. It sold for 9 million. What craziness. It’s all about order. Establishing an order, neatness, control on a chaotic world, apparently. There used to be two until one of the collectors way back set fire to one. ‘There’s only one now,’ he said, after he’d put his lighter to it.

My laptop is still struggling. I must try to not get frustrated. It will be resolved, sooner or later. Be patient, my love.

I dreamt of her again the other night. She was a baby and then a woman. I changed her nappy then she was bemoaning the state of her thighs. I like having her close. It is enough.