Outside the Saturday night drivers crawl down Church Street and there's a repetitive negotiation at our corner. Through the kitchen window I see cars that inch forward, then the white light of reverse, hand gestures indicating GO-OR-LET-ME-GO. All this during a first sip of rose.

Jarvis says log on in the night-time.

A sunny morning and without a shower I'm amongst it. The remains of the college informal is just a boy screaming at a get away Commodore screeching onto Missenden with the windows down. French toast at Deus and the long-delayed wedding post-mortem. When will people get that it's the sweet savoury that's interesting. There's all sweet, no savoury.

He says no-one should die of boredeom, at the very least.

It doesn't seem much to ask. I remember car journeys home. From anywhere really. I remember the short journeys the most. From Rutherford. Bullens. In summer mostly. Dwindling down opportunities. Last stop Lochinvar shop, and after that nothing. No possibility of running into anyone. All known and understood. Predictable. I think this as I'm ironing cloth napkins.