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 t...