Strange, sometimes exotic, smells drift into my bedroom through the open window at night. This morning it was the odour of smoky bacon crisps. It wasn’t bacon but an essence of it. Where it was coming from I didn’t know.
Our downstairs neighbour was at his window smoking when I went for my walk. I asked him if he’d managed to return to his quiz nights. He said no, but that he had gone to the pub for a drink. Scholars? I asked. Yes, he said, before going on to tell me that there is a new manager there, the old one having gone a ‘bit mad’ had been found wandering naked on the Prom. Poor man. Why does ‘madness’ always seem to inspire the shedding of clothes?
I finished it after about two years in the making. There is always an anti-climax. An ‘is that it?’ kind of feeling. I need to put it away and think about it. Where next?
