I think that is what he said, though with dreams it is often hard to tell exactly what words are uttered. I was disembarking from the top deck of bus, following in the wake of a group of American tourists. We had all be journeying to see an exhibition that was on in a gallery outside of the West End. Having got off, I sat down on a street bench to get dressed and a man came down a flight of stairs leading down from a front door of a terraced house. He looked morose, wore a white t-shirt and said, while not really looking at me: “It’s worse here”.
I fuss him. I fuss over dirt, disorder, chaos. The need for order, for control gets stronger as the years pass. He is a martyr to it.
