Writing at home, unusually. The air is cool, pleasant. It’s half past nine so not especially early. It feels calm, although there are sounds of the day beginning. Already the sun is heating up. Voices are heard. People do shout rather here. Cigarette ends seem to land on the balcony from above. They become part of the strange sculptural gatherings of petals and leaves from the plants. I probably should sweep them up but I don’t. I need to obtain some soil, all the plants are in need of nourishment.
I’m having to be careful not to slip into days of doing nothing, or at least nothing new. I’m meeting Danny and Chris later. If it wasn’t so hot I’d head out earlier and spend the day out somewhere. Staying here too much has harmed me, diminished my imagination, sterilised my thirst for stimulation. I could cycle all the way by river if the day was cooler. I will aim to do that though. Evenings would be a better time, or overnight.
Andrew Stevenson 