A perfect circle. A perfect O. Moon walking. This morning, no rain. Just the moon. Walking in the light of the moon. It’s a special kind of light. A warm white. Apparently the lunar eclipse will turn it red. A blood moon. Later this morning two rainbows. Two. Two crocks of gold. Where is the crock? he asked, which end? What does a crock look like? Twice the luck? Perhaps.
A 100 Miles yesterday. Sweeping roads through hills and towns. It was nice. We talked, the three of us. Sometimes we sat in silence. We lunched in a hotel on a hill overlooking the sea. A sleepy lounge softened by the warmth of a still hot sun. Gatherings of sofas. Elderly women sprawled out on the chintz, positively lolling in the through-glass sunshine. Like cats. Sitting up only for the arrival of triangular cut sandwiches and heavy metal pots of tea. No Lapsang Souchong, madam. Sorry. Well, Darjeeling will have to do. Two or three push walking cages past the window outside. They’re going for a fag. They sit huddled on garden chairs. In the lounge lunch is over and they are doing crosswords and Sudoku, heavy-eyed after food. Going to the loo I spot another lounge, empty, its glass door shut. The Adult Lounge.
No more Chris Evans in the morning. I promised. In return I don’t have to collect his papers. Bliss. I don’t have to do to the SPAR and talk to people. It’s not that I really mind I just prefer the silence, the closed-in-ness. I wonder if Jamie ever got Wendy back. No more Chris Evans. We listen to Radio 3 instead. The dulcet voice of Petroc Trelawney. A small change. A small shift towards something new. Yes. I like it. Children talking about the ten pieces project. It’s better than real music, one said.
You seem happy, she said. Yes, I said, I think I am.