I check the Election results. There is a photograph in the news of Canterbury, where I grew up, and I feel a powerful beat of nostalgia for a bit of wall.
Also in the cornershop there’s a very specific cheap lollipop smell which slips me through a wormhole into a 1982 cornershop where an irritable hippy used to work.
I go to the bank to pay in the pennies we’ve saved up. The woman who serves me is stressed and unhappy and I want to say something which makes her smile, but nothing emerges.
The guy who runs the bar near our flat is outside having a coffee. ‘No hat!’ he says to me as I pass. ‘Nope!’ I say. And we both feel good about that exchange. It went well.
My wife, Ai-chan, is fascinated and revolted at the way I fold my toes under my foot. This happens once every couple of months.
Glen Miller comes on, we dance a bit.
Lunch; rice and gingery vegetables and boiled egg and seaweed.
I have a siesta (‘japnap’ we call them) and dream about sympathising with a guy who is addicted to ‘Where’s Wally?’.
Sky is a sublime apple red. Seems seventies, Kodak. Clouds of swallows swoop around the terrace. The young storks are practicing flapping. My sock has a hole in it.
I shaved my head cue-ball smooth the other day. Now it feels like one of those brushes for LP vinyl.
A black dot appears on my toe, then vanishes. Is it a flea? Surely not. I start to think I imagined it.
Watched Tom and Jerry. My favourite expression of Tom’s is this: