Warm Brighton night. Towards the sea the manic beats of a wannabe Fatboy are drifting to me, reminding me how many of my friends are in a field right now while I look after miss fishy face.
She ate her food today which is good as I’ve been wondering. This is a sickly cat, who has medicine every morning. Looking after her involves listening to her.
She’s totally fine. She likes me to handle her. We have unusual conversations. We can sit together for hours. All her behaviours were familiar but for the lack of eating so I was relieved a few hours ago when she chowed down at last. The relief took me out and into the sunset.
A summer day, perhaps. Slow movement of happy people. Light and space.
I went and lay on stones near the edge. The tide was coming in, the salt spray on my face. Nobody was swimming despite warmth, likely as aware as I am that our entitled and profiteering so called leadership have enabled industry to turn the waves to filth. Still, the gentle spray is still a few years from being corrosive so I enjoyed being part of this final carefree decade or so. I finished yet another Robin Hobb trilogy on my Kindle as the sun set. And I had a pint by the Volks at Fika. Atrocious music played too loud, but we have all learnt to ignore that. I watched the sun set.
Now it’s me and the pusscat again and she’s gonna have me up at dawn. I’m gonna get my sleep while I can.
I wish I could be in a field tonight with Lou, with my friends. It’s lovely to be here with the mistress, but I miss a festival. Work starts next week again, if I can call it work. Commitment. And from thence, onwards to all the strange and wonderful things that are pending.
AlBarclay 