and rolling by crumbling brick terraces, a glance to the ageing Oxford loons in their once-modest million-pound homes. A couple dead-heading the roses. Holes in the floor and carefully placed rugs, time-travel kitchens and peach bathroom suites, copies of the TLS from the fifties, when there was still something worth reading making it to print. I carry my falafel nugget lunch and a card from Blackwell’s Art Shop, trying to shake the memory of faces, the girl in the deli with the sad eyes and a Queen Wealthow braid, the white-faced youth in his sackcloth cassock – where was he going, what high-walled holy quod does he call home? Another hour lost and no progress made, not even a paragraph pushed out. Beat it home and resist the wood panels and golden foam of the Gardeners. Nod hello to the Monkey Puzzle tree on Warnborough and pick up speed, three hours to write, three hours my own.
