December 12th 2019.
I climb Old Lyme Road, past the dark houses, the long garden lawns. The black of the hedges leaning out into the tarmac. The village behind me, impossibly small, improbably distant. And then, the road ends abruptly, just as I remember it. It is still marked by the iron gate, brown and orange and hidden, almost, in knots of bramble. A tiny pathway leads beyond it into the undergrowth. The brambles snatch at my clothes, scratching my arms. Suddenly, just as in waking life, a space opens up and beyond that space is the view that I have not seen since 1975. I am amazed at how wild it has become, at how nature has smothered it. I gaze down across a thick mattress of treetops, the ground completely obscured. Lyme Regis is as it should be – in the distance, in a hollow of blue clay and pale fields. The stone palm of the Cobb still cups the sea. I slide down the bank and go below the tree line. The air is cool and tastes of wet earth.
December 15th 2019.
It really is quite a surprise, on coming home, to discover Donald Trump and some mysterious blonde, dozing beneath my dishevelled and dubiously dirtied duvet. What is the world coming to?
December 19th 2019.
The airport is made of glass. A strange Scotsman walks into a bar… and asks me where Kenny L is. I pretend not to know, but I can clearly see Kenny in a distant lounge laughing and chatting in a booth in another bar – everything, of course, glassy.
The stranger follows my eyes, then leaves.
Lou from uni appears. Dear god, I haven’t seen you since 1999, she says. We fuck. The airport is made of glass.