Lunch
Worked. Took M & B to the station, realised we’d forgotten the crumble, turned back, got it, drove again, they missed the train but got the next one. Rode with T. Lunch with P. Arrived early and sat with my book and fizzy water, half concentrating on Shirley Jackson, half on the table near by, one of those heavens of stuff and nonsense largesse that the English countryside makes its own. I’d seen them greet each other in the carpark, a shouted hello, legs both short and wide somehow propelling two flowery females toward each other in tremendous hug and tales of traffic and late and excitable…
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