She is three today. I remember her calling me. I’ve some news, she said.
I smelt his cigarette before I saw him. He was outside one of the tall terrace houses adjoining the Little Italy Italian Restaurant sitting on a step with his feet on a railing. He was smoking. I only caught a quick glance. He seemed to wearing a fake fur short dressing gown, rather like a baby’s romper suit with child-like motifs on it. His legs were bare. He was reading his phone screen as he smoked. It always gives me a shock to see people awake at that hour. I think I have the world to myself then.
Another fishing boat was mooring as I walked down into the harbour. And there was a new lit Christmas tree in a flat along South Marine, next door to Yr Hafod. Also at the back of one the houses on that same Terrace was a huge array of balloons hanging from a garden awning. Had someone been celebrating?
Barbara Windsor has died. She had lost it all, all gone, all forgotten. She is remembered now. Rest in peace. Such smiles.
I dreamt I was holding some sculptures. I was with my Norwegian family. I think they were theirs. One was made from cloth and was coming apart like a much loved toy. They were meant to be icons or representations of loved friends. And I had a doll, a Sindy that I’d been using in a piece of work. I wasn’t satisfied with it and started to scrape off all the make-up I’d put on her face.
I catch David Attenborough talking about bowerbirds, the complicated structures they build and the shiny things they steal and forage in order to attract a mate. Fascinating. If their plumage is blue they tend to collect blue gimcrack. How look us they are.
Too many little jobs fill my head. Quite exhausting. Oh, to be still.