I kept hearing this noise. At first I thought it was the fridge, then the fan oven until I discovered it was coming from me. Was it my bones? No, it was my underwear, my body in fact a piece of black lacy lingerie (my one weakness, as Dorcas Lane, aka Julia Sawalha in Lark Rise would say). It isn’t boned like a corset but it sounds like it when I bend, emitting a kind of soft creaking like the creosoted hull of a boat. Funny.
I think about her often walking those corridors. Not unlike Ted Hughes’ caged jaguar, pacing the floor imagining the jungle, the open plains. Poor love.
And her, she crowds my thoughts too. So much bile. I still reel from reading it. What did King Lear say? Am I as misguided as he?
