Just back from London. It’s 23:15.
Strategic error – wearing a pair of new boots that I’d bought 5 years ago but only worn once, and that M took a hammer to on Tuesday night. My feet are in shreds, and I spent some of my day buying and applying plasters to said shredded feet.
London was not as cold as Norwich, and my safe house very warm indeed. It was a bit odd going to bed on my own down there at half past midnight and waking up at 05:30 this morning, befre the alarm, staying in bed till the alarm went, and then padding downstairs on said feet (again), with only my socks on, and starting work at 06:30, listening to Radio Stradbroke/Harleston Breakfast until other people trickled in.
Met an astoundingly interesting man this evening, and could have spent all evening chatting, but necessity cut that off, no doubt to be revisited.
My fingers are growing numb. There are unheard fragments of poems, songs, things running round my mind that I’ll get the chance, some time, to scribble down. And they’re real things, not just the fiction that I am rightly often accused of fleeing into. And I can’t explain why I do that – maybe because I’ve always been writing stories, ever since I can remember. Perhaps there’s something of the Walter Mitty about me. At least there’s not something of the night about me. And the quote I’m referring to was the pot calling the kettle black.
Tomorrow is another day.