Everything in its Right Place

It's my new way to work and there's a man driving a train of trolleys across the road outside the hospital. The trolleys have towels and linen in them. Cars and buses stop to let him across. He's not at the pedestrian crossing either, but then he's not technically a pedestrian. He's a Chinese trolley train driver.

A strangely optimistic thing to do, moving house. A chance to put everything (everything) in its right place. (In its right place.)

Mark Dapin wrote about the night I saw him at the pub. Not about me specifically but about the ridiculousness of the police with sniffer dogs. We think the same things, me and Mark Dapin. We have a connection. I toy with the idea of sending him a link to my blog entry about seeing him at the pub, but then I realise that he'll see the bit about his friend with his jumper slung around his shoulders, and it makes me feel disloyal.

The removalists are mainly polish and the head one calls me boss until I accidentally get their truck stuck in the narrow streets of our new neighbourhood. He doesn't speak to me at all after that.

From my bed I can see the red light on the top of Sydney Tower blinking, blinking. I'm hiding out in the big city blinking. But not very well because it a conspicuous spot, this house. On the first morning winter sun wakes me and I stick my head up, push the curtain aside and below I see my old office-mate struggling with the slinky black dog from workshop. She looks pained.

And Richard E Grant makes us think: who is Denton? He's a man-Kermit, and I've never wondered who he is, until now.