December 21st 2019.
We met in the soft cotton tunnels, both wriggling upward toward the light, and when we reached the surface, we found that the landscape was a duvet; a duvet of molehills for us to climb into and out of. A duvet meadow of blue, pale, but warmed by rods of sunlight. A figure sat on a hillock some distance away reading from a book on his knees.
“The Ginger Root Boy,” she says. And he zooms into focus, and sure enough he is a young boy of perhaps ten, formed entirely of root ginger (tiny tendrils of hair, rough cubic head). He must notice us on the landscape because he looks up and says, “I’m studying the toxicity of ginger, the effect of it on the liver. Eat, but don’t eat too much.”
December 22nd 2019.
Olivia A. is sat on the floor in an aisle of a supermarket. She is cutting rough and artless slices from a large bloomer loaf with a breadknife. She looks up and down the aisle as she pushes great wads of bread into her gob. We watch her on the surveillance camera. It is amusing.
December 23rd 2019.
Oliver’s Bookshop, on Whitley Road, has seen an extraordinary revamp. No longer is the room cramped with towering and wobbling shelves of dusty books. A smartly dressed doorman announces your name as you enter a sparse ground floor area. A waitress, dressed in a French maid outfit, offers up a plate of champagne glasses, a butler takes your coat. The room is crowded with quietly chatting people, many of whom are familiar. There are no books on this floor, but a staircase leads up to a rooftop garden which is where the books are smartly indexed on shelves. There are several ancient Panda police cars that have been cleverly cut in half, side to side. These serve as seated canopies to sit beneath. It really is quite a surprising party.