We were driving into town so that I could draw in the coffee shop (there was a threat of rain, else we would have walked) when I saw it. It was climbing up the wall of a student house on the corner of Penglais Road before secreting itself into a cavity underneath a wooden window sill. Oh, my God, I said. What? he asked. It’s a rat. A long discussion followed about whether we should let the letting agency know. And I had an internal one too – they will use poison and so on. He said no, and that it wasn’t our business. They tell us that there are rats everywhere. And they must be right – I certainly saw enough of them in the students’ hall in Oxford. But there was something chilling about seeing it in the glare of day and so close to human habitation. It is always so hard to know whether to interfere or not. It’s a bit like the flies that have started to infest the window ledge again. Don’t they know it’s winter? And I have to clean them away though I shrink from it. Poor loves they only want to live, as we all do. And then I worry about the hyacinth bulbs I’ve planted. Seven are showing but what about the other two. Are they just slow in sprouting or are they dead? Be patient, I hear him say in my head.
The tides are getting fuller, stronger and higher. There are great trunks of broken trees on both beaches and shale lies in swathes on the Prom.
His light was on in his kitchen as I returned from my walk. I want to peer in to see how he is, we so rarely see him now. The TV, though on was barely discernible from our communal hall. No Rawhide this morning. I’ve taken the liberty (without asking him) of re-taping up their post box. His mother had mislaid the key so they have to have it semi-open and had used a bit of sticky bandage for the purpose but it kept gaping open. I’ve stuck it with some duck tape. Will he mind? How is it to be in the state of dying as he is? He has two kinds of cancer, diabetes and ulcers on his legs. Poor love. I want to ask how he is but he and I maintain a socially-manufactured distance of inane pleasantries. I keep meaning to break it and ask how he is really but bottle out. I must, just to show how much I care. For I do. I do.
