8 [photocopy of a snapshot] I cut Lillian's hair every twelfth week, dry it every sixth. It grows. I cut it. I dry it. It has become grey by increments; city pigeon to autumn noon, fading print to cigarette ash. Each accretion of tone slowly highlighting further her pink brittle cheeks, the pools … Continue reading Mirror (8): Pale Airman.
15/08/19. The strangest coincidence today. A man turns up for a haircut. He's off on holiday to Cambridge later in the day. "I've never been," I say. He says that he used to live there when he was a teenager in the early 1980s. He begins to regale me with Cambridgeshire tales from his youth. … Continue reading Run As Fast As You Can, Bear.