Marigolds (7)

It’s like looking for the green shoots that herald the return of snowdrops after a long winter. The municipal gardeners have been out for there are new marigolds in the beds along South Marine Terrace. And Coffee# is opening today, only for take aways but it is something. Some kind of normalcy is returning. And yet, there is much that I want to hold on to. Being at home, working at home is the main one. And the peace of not having to engage too much with the outside world. Though I do miss the escaping. My dreams are full of the journeys I am not making. Last night I dreamt of M and how I was to join her and J in the christening of their new puppy. It made absolute sense in my dream. However, it involved a long journey to get there, on various modes of transport that she supplied, one was a strange Quad bike contraption with two platforms behind, the other a moped that got stuck in a waterlogged trench, which I had to drag out. We stopped alot to buy supplies (at one point after admitting that she’d also cut out bread we took a break to buy some salad cream, of which she confessed to being very fond – standing before a great row of bottles she asked me which one I’d like, none I said, they contain eggs, oh, she replied, we always have two large spoonfuls of it). I remember watching myself opening a bag of very watery and dirty iceberg lettuce and beginning to chop it up but then giving up and resealing the bag. I also looked at material, one roll of which was a deep pink muslin but already formed into seams seemingly for a ready made shirt. She also kept disappearing to go to the loo. And her flat was situated in a Hobbs store, its entrance being just a door next to the changing rooms. The store, I’d noticed before I went in was up for sale. I recognise many of the scenarios, the allusions to food and toilets and vehicles – they play out my day thoughts, though twisting them into stranger shapes. They say the people we dream off are really aspects of ourselves. Possibly. She was still M. And as lovely as ever.

His mother was OCD he said. She made him, as a child, hoover his bedroom carpet with the nozzle bit over and over again, insisting that she saw the lines in the pile.

She doesn’t live her life easily, said Peter Hall of Maria Ewing.

A good day yesterday. Was it the tea? Or Sherlock Holmes?