Samways. That’s the name on the fish truck. I sometimes see it down by the harbour when I walk in the early mornings. It’s parked up, it’s lights are off. No doubt it is waiting for the ‘fish to come in’, for the fishing boats and trawlers to bring in their catch. Have they been out all night? There is always a beautiful drawing of a fish on the side of the lorry. A blown up watercolour of a fish, its tail curving its body into a half moon.
The moon is almost full. Not quite but almost. I love to walk in its light. I feel lifted by it, even if it is a cold white light rather than the warm yellow of the sun. No one about this morning. Lovely, just lovely. The wind was churning up the sea, lots of froth and foam swirling as I looked down from the Perygyl.
I continue to think back over my journey on Friday. For all its stress and protracted-ness there was some memorable moments. Such as the guard on the platform at Manchester Piccadilly, just before he leant over and whispered that I’d have to find another way of getting to Shrewsbury as the train had been cancelled, calling out, are you eating fruit? I thought I could smell it, I love the smell of fruit. I had eaten an apple but at the moment I was gnawing my way through some raw carrot. Was it that that he was smelling? And the beautiful elderly woman on the seat next to me on the Leeds train (have I already mentioned her?) telling me that she had dementia. Such an open, intelligent face, with that oh so subtle Canadian accent. I’ve lived here twenty years, she said. But you could still hear it. Are you scared? I asked her. Of course she was, but somehow I believe in the power of articulating it. She was unfazed by my familiarity. Yes, she said. She talked of some important research she wanted to do before it took hold. And there was the man on the Shrewsbury train trying to look up alternative trains for me on his mobile. And the other, pretty, man eating soup with a leather bracelet around his wrist with a little wooden bead on it inscribed with the name ‘Amy’, with his gentle enquiries. I watched his hands as he ate.
Anne Cleves was on DIS. I’ve no time for people saying they’ve no time to write, she said, talking about how she snatched 10 minutes here and there while her children were small. It took her 20 years to gain the recognition she has now.
She’s said yes to two commissions. I am pleased. They are small things in the whole scheme of the world’s economy but I like the challenge of them and the chance it gives me to send something out there.
I backed flapjacks and shortbread at his insistence. I like the way the sweetness of the treacle permeates the house, masking that miasma that is always there when I’ve been away. Is it him? Or glue from under the floor or something more sinister? He doesn’t smell it. I burn sage and it masks it a bit. It is passing but perhaps that is just me getting used to it.
A day of writing up my notes from last week. A chance to rediscover my ideas and thoughts. Just peace, that is all. A peaceful acceptance of my self firstly and then what is, where I find myself. A slow, paying attention towards death. It is a good enough life.