June weeks, not so cold. Remembering last winter. Shivering misery.

On the door step on a Thursday morning is a French fry. Just one.

I love the sound of you walking away.

I feel wispy. Not unlike a chip. Like it might be time to go back to curly hair. Wispy with flat shoes. Only flat shoes. Like a mission. Not even boots any more.

I crave total control now. Like the woman in Pattern Recognition. Just yes or no. Not the endless why. It doesn't work. I know it. Trust me. I'll tell you when it does.

Kate Bush. PJ Harvey. I doubt they're compromising types. I bet they know it.

David Byrne.

Carrots cut lengthways to roast for a Sunday lunch.

Why such comfort from putting on shoes after walking around only in socks? Even inside. I've wondered for such a long time about the feet of older people, wondered about their preoccupation with toenails and corns. I am beginning to understand, though, that physical comfort is a large part of happiness and feet are key.

There's a fake snake. Black, and wound around the balcony railing. For the cockatoos you understand.

I stand on the step and there's a sailing boat with no sails dipping on slate ocean. Testing dimension. Lurching. Eamonn says: just out and back again.

The night before: boys sit in the dark on the deck tinkering with fishing lines and tackle.

Aetheists hatch plans to christen their children to get them into their preferred school.