We, the sheeple

Up before the Monday larks with Lorraine, scraping ice off the windscreen before she drove me to Preston Park Station. A bright sunny day. Jumped off at Hassocks. Once on the Victoria train, started writing one of my new eight line poems about a Coelacanth. This jotted down, I started reading a collection of vaguely Christmas themed short stories by Rachel Joyce called A snow garden, a book that Dawn had given Lorraine and I a year ago.

As I got off the train I spotted Matt Colborne in the crowds. He'd been on the train with me. A brief conversation galloping across Victoria station, he is living in London now. We bade each other farewell as I joined the massive queue outside the tube, which was let in after not too long. Someone baa-ing like a sheep as we the sheeple flocked along and down into the station.

Into work, and not a bad day. Managing to get people to tell me what they want writing from time to time. Still a bit like getting blood from a stone. People quite chatty today. A walk along the canals at lunchtime in the sunshine feeling fairly cheery, as I mumbled on my Pret baguette. The second half of the day dragging a bit, but left on time, and made it to Brighton Station fairly early. Lorraine collected me, and we drove back together. The Sainsburys delivery man had just arrived, (we had both forgotten about him). A loquacious but friendly soul. We ate our plated up portions of Sunday roast and watched the new Star Trek, which was fun.

And early to bed. Lorraine reading alound from the new Philip Pulman book, La Belle Sauvage. 

Below overcrowding on the platform, so we queue outside to get in.