We’ve only recently had our windows cleaned. They are a bugger to clean – I can’t reach them and they have to be done with long poles. Anyway yesterday, or was it the day before, a bird, could be a seagull (though his old mate says that there’s no such thing) or a rook, whatever it was it shat on our tall upstairs window, a dribble of which went onto the one below. It’s a huge splat of a thing. I’m trying to see it as a gift, like my painful hip, a gift that is there to teach me acceptance. There is f**k all I can do about it until the window cleaners from Aberaeron come again so I have to look at it with what, grace? Yes. It is what it is, he would say.
He went to buy the tickets for the circus. Are you one of the performers? he asked the tattooed girl in the caravan-cum-box-office. Yes, she said, I do fire.
