grinding the beans. Tea and breakfast for the family. To town on errands and then I climb the scaffold to sand and paint the fascias. Lot of wood up there. Between coats, chat with the neighbours and drag a rent branch from the middle of the street and lay it in our skip, civic duty done. Then a long shower and a glass of Carmenere and some Haggard – She – or Coward Peace in Our Time, the books moving up in the tottering bedside pile, shrapnel working its way to the surface. And the sight of the kitchen rose, something exceptional in my allotted hours. I don’t even deserve it. Another day kicked in the ass, as Bukowski said, but I think he was about done in by then, enough repeats. It’s all in the glimpses, if you can open your eyes to them. I’m smiling yet. I’m still running my race.
