and I went looking for a fried fuse, bought a multimeter and crawled around under the dash listening out for circuit beeps. But it was an exhausted pump. I booked it into the garage to swap it out and then we got a cold snap – after weeks of rains and storms and the flood plains abrim either side of the peninsula – so the handbrake seized, some moisture on the contacts froze, maybe. I have to wait for the sun and 2˚of thaw before I can roll. Now I watch the weather reports like an astraphobe, fearing the fronts and the frosts. In the summer the engine cuts out because the heat messes with the air intake, in the winter the back wheels lock tight. I have to use the car club to head over to Essex for a rare day playing guitar. It was better in the storms, at least the car agreed to move. Noel was quiet, calm. But I’m still hunting work, ever-buffeted by the book game. Been reading the Russians again, the SWW march back through the towns fought over today, attacks and counterattacks around the rivers and marshes. And The Magic Mountain sits weighty on the shelf, daring me to reach out for it. Could be summer again before I get through it. I move through my days, trying to concentrate on the local, the little things I can buy and do and support. Concentrating on things I can do well, even if it’s no more than making a decent cup of coffee. I have next to no agency beyond the ring road, and I know it.