The sunbathers of Spring
Mercury is retrograde, which astrologers claim sends communications awry. Astrology may be bunk, but it mirrors the scrambled and patchy communications arriving at the PK outpost, waiting for Godot-like briefs and emails to be answered. Nevertheless a great day's work on the business book. I will soon have a large enough sample to go fishing with it.
A warmish blue-skied day, so went out for an hour at lunchtime gulping the fresh air. Paid a cheque into my bank, and then strayed onto the pier. A dozen people on deck chairs; a mother basking with her eyes firmly closed, absorbing the sun on her face while being tormented by her bored son, and others eyed by seagulls as they dozed to the cheesy music drifting from the speakers. Admittedly the sun-baskers were wearing coats, but nevertheless an omen of better things. Seen from the pier, the pebbles on the beach now in two colours, the dark sea-wetted edge, and the sun dried beach several tones lighter.
Walking home along London Road, Brighton's conduit of all that's miserable, is a different story. Several empty shops, among the low end stores, one of whose windows had been hammered through to try to force an entry, another property occupied by squatters with banners draped in the windows asking not to be criminalised. Street alcoholics drinking from cans, clots of the homeless and addicted, a girl of 18 or 19 emerging from an alley in tears, and her pimp standing in the shadows toying nonchalantly with his phone. All human life is here, and it isn't a pretty.
Spoke to Janet, who says Ken is now in a different ward and there is talk of releasing him. He'd be a good deal happier at home I think. Apparently Janet told me he doesn't remember much of the last week or so, and she said he should keep it that way. A quick chat with Mum too. Meanwhile Lorraine back from a cheerless Monday, and had work to do in the evening. I cooked us noodles and read more of Blindness by Saramago.
A warmish blue-skied day, so went out for an hour at lunchtime gulping the fresh air. Paid a cheque into my bank, and then strayed onto the pier. A dozen people on deck chairs; a mother basking with her eyes firmly closed, absorbing the sun on her face while being tormented by her bored son, and others eyed by seagulls as they dozed to the cheesy music drifting from the speakers. Admittedly the sun-baskers were wearing coats, but nevertheless an omen of better things. Seen from the pier, the pebbles on the beach now in two colours, the dark sea-wetted edge, and the sun dried beach several tones lighter.
Walking home along London Road, Brighton's conduit of all that's miserable, is a different story. Several empty shops, among the low end stores, one of whose windows had been hammered through to try to force an entry, another property occupied by squatters with banners draped in the windows asking not to be criminalised. Street alcoholics drinking from cans, clots of the homeless and addicted, a girl of 18 or 19 emerging from an alley in tears, and her pimp standing in the shadows toying nonchalantly with his phone. All human life is here, and it isn't a pretty.
Spoke to Janet, who says Ken is now in a different ward and there is talk of releasing him. He'd be a good deal happier at home I think. Apparently Janet told me he doesn't remember much of the last week or so, and she said he should keep it that way. A quick chat with Mum too. Meanwhile Lorraine back from a cheerless Monday, and had work to do in the evening. I cooked us noodles and read more of Blindness by Saramago.
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