Trips

I like our trips, he says. But he is tired this morning, so I have relaxed my rigour and suggested he sleep for an hour before we set off. I am eager to be gone, to be off,┬áto be on the road. I didn’t think we’d make it. Work has been busy but no phone calls so far, so we are to go. The exhibition closes this week so it is the last chance. Shall I write about it? I’d like to. At least have a go. The choice is mine, and that is nice. Though I rarely write for money. There is nothing in it. But usually I am encouraged to do it by being commissioned, there is someone expecting it. This way is different. We’ll see.

I saw her again today. A large girl, tall and broad in a summer dress and flip flops. She was walking as I do in the early hours, on the Prom. I saw her near the newsagent just up from the castle. She was wearing the same cotton dress. She looked a little distrait. Aimless, even. I often see wanderers at that time. Wanderers like me. Insomniacs, the homeless, students, night-workers and revellers. There is the woman who always wears a hoodie and carries a plastic bag. She smokes as she walks. And the homeless man in the blue cap. And the one with the crutches. I wish them well, muttering salutations quietly as I pass them. Mostly, there is no eye contact.

A short one today. Safe journey. The day bodes well.