I miss you, Sable Cure. Among the missing, you, the little tweak or nag of unformed wish, just to see the day here. You're like one of those binocular sets on a hill. So I put a coin in and open the lenses.

Today I talked to a former clerk of a House of Commons, and we helped to plant a nutmeg tree. I've met him before, he's so kind. Putting the glass of chardonnay down on the metal drain grid to applaud softly. Damp armpits all around. The way people toss their heads with a bit of panic when they are just TOO hot. He said he misses the fun, the intrigue.

The future's been swinging around wildly. A door's opened in the trap. It's wonderful news.

Adult women who've never held or moved a spade. I remember that feeling from childhood - wrists flailing and the blade skimming off the pile of dirt, scattering it at weird angles.