No sun, just a grey sky. August soon. Need some heat. She rang up yesterday to say that there were blackcurrants. I’ve had some for breakfast all this week. No sugar, just cooked through. They stain the tongue. A tart, deep blue taste. And gooseberries. Even harder to find. Is it that we no longer preserve, make jams, bake pies, make crumbles? Tart fruits. Soft fruits. A sting on the tongue. It is the small things. All else is chaos.
There was a cat playing with a dead mouse, batting it with its paws and throwing it up in the air.
Two young men talking on a bench on the Prom at 3.30 am. I understand, one of them is saying. I understand Brian has his feelings.