There’s a pink dolls’ house in the window of the second-hand shop Terrace Avenue. It has been given pride of place and raised on a little plinth above all the other stuff that lies beneath it such as the battered four-stringed banjo, the various model railway engines and Portmeirion crockery. I longed for one as a child but my desires were for a beautiful one full of exquisitely-made perfectly scaled down antique furniture and effects just like that one we visited all those years ago in Windsor Castle. This pink one would’ve disappointed me. It is clunky, the furniture is clunky. And it is too pink. For £25 someone is bound to snap it up for some little girl or other. I hope it gives pleasure.
The widow of the electrician who died in Spain has hung some lights from the eaves of her house. They are splendid. The house across the way owned by the jovial ex-butcher and some-time jailbird has hung some in a tree and he leaves his inside Christmas tree lights one too. I fantasised, as I walked, about making some thank you cards and popping them in their letter boxes to say how much I appreciated the lights as I walked through the dark. But I talked myself out of it. They leave the lights on for themselves not for we solitary ramblers.
A friend of his has died. He told me of it when I came in to wake him for breakfast. I sat on the side of the bed and held his hand. He was a kind a man, a little opinionated, I believe, but kind. He witnessed our second marriage. He wore a sports jacket, I think. Rest in peace. The town will feel his loss. As does he.