as the footie season starts up. A burst of colour around the green slab of the garden, trying to save the butterflies from the leaping cat. The noir takes shape, but too slowly. I’ll send the first ten or fifteen thousand in when I get to the villain, dangling a silver hook in the watery vastness again. Dark loomings keep me wide-eyed through the lonely hours, another lockdown, rumblings in the West, hard times and confusion as we go into the stark, brittle months. I run my DIY errands around the discount sheds, the sky looks down unruffled, bemused by my worries.
