We became maudlin. Understandably so, we couldn’t help it. I asked him about the woman. He’d mentioned it before I fell off to sleep in the afternoon. The details aren’t that clear yet. She’d been staying in a chalet outside Machynlleth and had gone into a laundry or airing cupboard for some reason in the night and had got locked in. She’d tried the handle but it had come off in her hand. Three days she’d been in there and there had been a water leak too. She’d died of hyperthermia. Bless her. To die like that, it is desperate. They’d found evidence of her scratching on the back of the door. Then he began to talk of the Trump’s new policy for separating the children of economic migrants and refugee’s coming into The States from their parents. I had no idea. He was incensed. I lay in bed later thinking of the woman and those children and indeed their parents. I had no faces to concentrate on, just a sense of humanity, their humanness. The same as mine. I imagined coming upon the woman and talking to her through the door, trying to calm her. Getting help and setting her free. I am too late. We are all to late. I thought I heard banging, one of the other chalet visitors is purported to have said. Too late. Rest in peace. And those children, give them succour, let something turn the tide.

His writing fills me with possibilities. They are short little pieces with titles like piss, petrol, mouth and adder. He is describing the world for his unborn baby. Capturing. He writes without artifice. He writes sensually but not self-consciously so. It is so refreshing. I have wanted to write a series of pieces on the women I know and have known. An act of noticing of capturing. He writes descriptively, factually sometimes and then he throws in something deeply personal, remembered and perplexing, like his father killing the adder. I am taken deeply.

You look like a robin, she said, staring down at my red tights, very trendy. I like her. Stupid cow, he said afterwards, robins have red breasts not legs. She meant well, I said and am convinced of it.

A wild windy morning, I got lashed by a wave on the Perygyl. The clouds move fast across the sky. I’ve a check-up this morning. I don’t like being pricked and prodded. My body is my own. We understand each other. Hey hum. The death of Nurse Barbara in the Midwife is so upsetting. We wept buckets. Charlotte Ritchie is such a joy to watch.

Must off now to work for an hour or so before I go to see the nurse, then into work. A bitty day. So be it. So be it.