A young man is sitting at the next table, boyish looks, slack grey sweater, smooth neck, we are close, physically, separated by a Perspex screen. The juxtaposition feels voyeuristic. There’s a voicemail message on my ‘phone, but I can’t access it because of PIN number uncertainty. I wonder who it was. Normally I don’t worry … Continue reading 70. Tuesday afternoon. Mid-luncheon at St Pancras.
Tag: writing
174. Sunday. St Pancras, although I was indecisive about coming here.
The train went over Tanners Hill, which is unusual these days. That’s the main reason I came out. Such a strange thing, but I feel slightly nostalgic seeing the view over Lewisham Vale and the fast run up to London Bridge. It reminds me of times gone by when travelling to work was enjoyable. Now … Continue reading 174. Sunday. St Pancras, although I was indecisive about coming here.
49. Thursday.
Two and a half books of this writing. I don’t know whether to call it “work” or not, as in “a body of work”. Work, when used to describe the sort that we are supposed to go to every day, is an emotive, loaded word. A lunatic on a men’s social website has been questioning … Continue reading 49. Thursday.
71. Thursday afternoon.
There does seem to be a depressing inevitability to all of this. Three things have happened today. I initially called them major things, but I’m not so sure now. It is hard to tell what is significant. The immediate world feels surreal. President Macron of France has announced new national lockdown restrictions. The population will … Continue reading 71. Thursday afternoon.
Andrew Stevenson 