of nuclear obliteration in the air again, a musty memory from the ‘8os I thought was gone for good. And there’s absence in the house, all the air currents and clicks and creaks of the house are changed, yet to settle. I have that sense of something momentous about to happen but it never comes, only the days padding by my desk chair, flicking me what-now glances as they lope along. So I try to work. The bull-man haunts me even on my river walks, I’ve been writing up dialogue and sketching him out, must close this week. Finish something and move on to the next, hope one of them sells and earns you a ticket onto the water.