Walking the village, bottom to top; from the palm of shops – the butcher, the baker, the barber, the bookshop, the (burnt-out) Broken Biscuit Co-op – up, up the length of high street, up, up the length of Old Lyme Road, to the quiet site, hidden in the fog, of Cliff House…
They’ve erected a statue next to the crab apple tree. A statue of Ray Davies. I kneel at his feet. He leans into a microphone, guitar around his neck. The cables are black. They loop his Cubans. I trace their mess with a forefinger.
“They’re made of liquorice,” someone says.
“Boots? Ha! No, the cables!”
“And the statue? Marble?”
“Marble?! Good Lord, no! Pure alabaster!”
James D. has bought a Brompton. He rides it with much gusto, bunny hopping pavements, straddling hills and even staircases.
As I leave the house for work, Fergus, the energetic Spaniel belonging to Mike W, bounds out of the shadow of the box where all the mail is kept. “Hello, hound,” I say. He says nothing, but barks what could/would be a sentence. He is growing fast.
“Take him for a walk?” asks Mike W. But I can’t – I’m off to work. This seems to aggravate Mike W no end and I have to run out the house. I turn to see if they are following me. They are.