up at four snorting warm air through the mask, breathing in the sticky night fortified by the the tacky ribbed pressure tube.
Turn of the turbine, get up, gather together the notebook.
Cannot concentrate. Read about the lost MH370, with all its passengers and cargo gone for years now. As if deleted from the face of the earth.
And if it is in the sea, the sea will return it.
If it is on land it is hidden.
All a question of time.
No concentration, eyes are heavy, there is a noise of partys in the middle distance outside. A police horn, a Martin’s horn, sounds.
Silence, like the sound cut with a knife.
A few minutes later the sound of subdued revellers walking down the Martin’s church alley.
Still no concentration, cannot write, so back to bed.
No mask, no tubes.
Awaken four hours later, it is bright and hot.
The suns sunday has started, the weather is hot and humid already. That Sahara air, immigrated fugitive air, bringing a taste of summers to come should the climate change in time as the scientists forecast.
The son is at the computer, studying logical connections, then playing jump and runs. Computers make their own distractions.
The cat plays hunter on the ground, kicking and teasing a plastic bottle cap with her paws, then picking it up in her mouth and carrying it around with pride.
Set up the Bialetti, and the son wishes to use the special porcelain service bought in the flea market. As a sign of special care it is hand washed before use.
It is grey and white patterned, in a fifties fibre pattern.
The sun will be relentless today, that is so.
And the tinny tuss hiss is here to stay it seems.
The cat slaughters the fallen roll of kitchen towels on the sitting room floor, and when it is tired of that commences to chase its own tail.
The day is quiet yet, cars are rumbling in the distance, one at a time, the noise interspersed with periods of peace and quiet.
Turn of the turbine, get up, gather together the notebook.
Cannot concentrate. Read about the lost MH370, with all its passengers and cargo gone for years now. As if deleted from the face of the earth.
And if it is in the sea, the sea will return it.
If it is on land it is hidden.
All a question of time.
No concentration, eyes are heavy, there is a noise of partys in the middle distance outside. A police horn, a Martin’s horn, sounds.
Silence, like the sound cut with a knife.
A few minutes later the sound of subdued revellers walking down the Martin’s church alley.
Still no concentration, cannot write, so back to bed.
No mask, no tubes.
Awaken four hours later, it is bright and hot.
The suns sunday has started, the weather is hot and humid already. That Sahara air, immigrated fugitive air, bringing a taste of summers to come should the climate change in time as the scientists forecast.
The son is at the computer, studying logical connections, then playing jump and runs. Computers make their own distractions.
The cat plays hunter on the ground, kicking and teasing a plastic bottle cap with her paws, then picking it up in her mouth and carrying it around with pride.
Set up the Bialetti, and the son wishes to use the special porcelain service bought in the flea market. As a sign of special care it is hand washed before use.
It is grey and white patterned, in a fifties fibre pattern.
The sun will be relentless today, that is so.
And the tinny tuss hiss is here to stay it seems.
The cat slaughters the fallen roll of kitchen towels on the sitting room floor, and when it is tired of that commences to chase its own tail.
The day is quiet yet, cars are rumbling in the distance, one at a time, the noise interspersed with periods of peace and quiet.
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