They come, as they do for everybody. “This is when character tells,” the fictional Edith Hope’s father used to say in Anita Brookner’s Hotel du Lac. And it does. He was rattled. The window of the driver’s seat had finally given up the ghost. It shouldn’t have been put off. And now it is fucked. So a hire car has been booked, which he has to go to Camarthen to collect and we’ve yet to find somewhere to mend it. It made my head all foggy and my writing was terrible. I’ve to face it now. And I will. Money needs to be found from somewhere. Doesn’t it?
