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to trawl the banks looking for the cat donor, I’ve been in the tunnel trying to clear fifty thousand words. You have to carve the hours out of the day to write, the sand in the glass is always falling. I try to avoid the lure of current affairs, it’s too fleeting and worthless. The old machines don’t work in the new age, nobody is up to the job, none of the players are clean. But it’s hard to look away, even harder to turn the router off. Soon there’ll be no off-switch and the devices will be conversing. But I have my escape plan. I have an Eden in mind, just me, the family and the cat – if he wants to come along. He might prefer the urban scene, he’s a Barton bruiser by birth. But it’s only when you reach your Eden that you understand the depths of your folly. I’ll have some years left to reflect, listening to the sea from a hammock in the orchard.

and gifted me a companion. I wasn’t here, he left no note, only the box and the cat and “from Riverman”. He sits on my shoulder in the long afternoons, gazing through the glass doors. I’m wise enough to enjoy it and feel lucky while it lasts, before the call of the wild draws him into the garden. And I step out looking for Riverman along the waterways.

and five months in. Already there’s a sense of the looping tilt, the ground warming. But no hammock for me, only the blank page and the call of something that keeps me tapping the keys.

the gold flash viewed from one side, the reverie, here is a finger click of multimedia. But it doesn’t change the way we look at the world, he’s not in that league. It speaks to the young, the magic robes, the fairytale embrace. It speaks to the crowd who want to capture their mugs in the foreground, jutting into view, jabbering, chirruping in my ears. There are few times I long to be rich, I don’t want that loneliness, but I’d donate a million to have this room to myself for ten minutes, out of hours, no wish to deprive the masses. But there’s no million in my pockets. You can earn the right through fame or reputation, but I don’t have those either.

sharp and blue through the slats, as though I’m up in the higher atmosphere not down on the dusty plain. Thirty years ago I drove all night to get here, the van ran dry within sight of the hotel and we jumped out to push it over the tram tracks. I recall a haughty doorman, but I don’t know if that’s real or an embellishment. The room memory is true though, to the inner thread that gets to decide on these things, the blinds and the bright blue light, the white buildings with the stonework flourishings. It’s the same view from the apartment, a flash of gold gilt, Harry’s ants rushing by in their smart trousers and long coats, pinched faces. I gulp doppelmalz and read a thriller, conscious that this is my allotted time, the digits flicking by on the tram validator are gone for good. But wandered, not squandered. If I return in another 30 years I will be the age my father is today. Always tramping on with the arrow, always stomping in Jack’s reality boots.

who drag their blocks and imponderables wherever they roam, impeding, burdening, crushing toes and tarmac. Away anchors. Hack off those kilograms, get a copy of Stamboul Train and run to the station. Take your family with you, pursue the shared experience.

never made it across the lagoon alive. Elena had to persuade the sea captain to carry her husband home in a box. The penultimate chapter of On the Eve is the best thing I’ve read in months, Venice casting its not-quite-real spell of chalk-blue water, alleyway switches, churches and that lullaby symphony of drips and sea gurgles. Enchanter Death is always only a corner turn away. But today I’m far from the white stone walks, the swaying horizon and the mist hiding the mainland, all I’ve got is the fading text and the paper curl of my bedtime reading. There’s no espress with the workers coming in, no getting lost in the afternoons. I’ve concrete paths to break up, a square of dirt to level. I’m down at the sheds, buying my work boots, enjoying the vistas of modern British retail. But soon I’ll slip eastwards, out to the old empire and the lovers’ last stopping place before Venice, after their sleigh ride from Moscow. Insarov rested with his lungs in revolt, while Elena dreamed of the watery city and the uncertain land beyond. But none of us really know our next port of call.

and out to break bread with an old friend. And all the better for the pages typed and tucked under my belt this morning.

but it was a blow losing the Albion Beatnik. The Bookhouse is now a coffee shop – £2.50 for an espresso, when I can stand and lay a euro on the zinc anywhere in Italy and drink better – and the recycling crates are bulging. They’re dropping the prices in the charity shops to clear the shelves. All those unwanted trillions of printed words, lurking in bins, well-thumbed spreads spreadeagled in the leisure centre car park potholes.

in a week and the blossom bursts out around town. I walked to the folly in a winter wind, but now it’s dazzling and too warm to write. I’m not ready to shed my winter hide, but the year speeds away, there’s no holding on. And I still feel like the kid on the waltzer, terrified I’ll be spun out screaming into the dark beyond the funfair blaze.