Sometimes when it feels to her as if everyone is waiting for some small event to breathe life into a suffocating world, she is found attending to memories.
She tries to catch absences as they arrive; the past as it claims the present; the futures that crumble at a touch; the goings as they’re coming.
She notes how glister turns to gloom. (Her words.) And how gloom soon unfastens.
Over lunch, in the park, a man sits on a bench and chews a sandwich. She gathers up her phone, keys and pass, and heads back to the office. Time up.
Wearing this jacket, which bears witness to the grand public schools, the British Empire, Kipling and Kitchener, Ypres, the Somme and the Western Front, brassy medals, Chelsea bombings, fighting in Norway, Palestine, South Africa, Iraq, Afghanistan and the Balkans, the Order of St Patrick, the ‘Troubles’, Brian Boru, the kid cadets still named ‘mini Micks’, Passchendaele, Jacobites and the Battle of the Boyne, the bear-skin hats, the Stuart dynasty, postings in Belize, Cyprus, securement of the British Sector of West Berlin, Kuwait, Basra, County Fermanagh, Zimbabwe-Rhodesia, the freedom of Liverpool, with thousands upon thousands dead and mutilated, I thee wed.