Some very nice people left this morning: the important folk from Ikea who I sent away to consider those of us who find shopping with a map too claustrophobic. Ever thought of a window? The man from Sweden asked me if I was aware of the escape routes in their stores. Escape routes? Doesn’t that tell you something?

John, Carol and the lads also, sadly, left. John says he’s bought me a parting gift. I am touched. John emerges from his gite with a plant – a pot of basil. With the plant come instructions. John has, apparently, invented the chain plant. It’s an ecological, biological version of the old chain letter. I must keep it going and pass it to the next inhabitant of my cabanon when I leave. My heart sinks. John has not known me long enough to understand my disastrous reputation with potted plants. John is unaware that I only have to look at a potted plant for it to recoil and wither. I wave goodbye to the family I first met here last year with a heavy heart: partly, because I will miss them, but largely due to the burden of responsibility which they’ve left me.

I go in search of a lake. In all the years I’ve been coming here, I have somehow missed THE lake. To begin with, it seems like another treasure hunt; another hidden gem. Then, in the middle of the woods, I see a car and assume I must have arrived. Unfortunately, I’ve already parked next to said vehicle before I realise the owner has left the door open and the engine running whilst he has a pee against a handy tree trunk. It’s an exceptionally long pee. He looks over his shoulder at me with a degree of suspicion. I politely look in the other direction and wait for him to finish. I feel I must justify my presence so ask him if this is the car park for the lake – which it clearly isn’t. He silently points in another direction.

I am, frankly, amazed at the beautiful lake. Obviously, there are no other foreigners here because, unsurprisingly, there aren’t any signs. I consider a jaunt around the periphery but the fire wardens, who are currently present everywhere, inform me that my brand new Slazenger walking sandals do not constitute appropriate footwear for the terrain. No problem: I’d rather just sit on a pile of rocks, write a few lines and enjoy the unexpected treat. Anyway, it’s past midi and there’s another gem to seek out before I pause for lunch.

Here’s another little piece of unexpected French cultural history that I happened on by chance. It’s a Jewish cemetery which, as we may anticipate by now, is also down an unmarked road in the back of beyond.  It’s on a site which apparently dates from the 15th century. To the left of the plaque, you might be able to see a more recent edifice which commemorates French Jews who travelled to fight in the Spanish civil war and others who, of course, perished in another war. What a treat to find a piece of history that has been recognised by the French. I expect you can guess what’s coming.

I took this picture of the cemetery standing on tip-toes and angling the camera through the bars on top of a locked gate. Later, I go to the tourist office and ask when I might gain entry to the cemetery. ‘Never’, comes the reply. ‘Why not’, I demand? ‘I don’t know’, says the child behind the counter sporting a badge which declares he is ‘in training’. ‘Where did you say you were from’, he has the audacity to enquire? I tell him and he electronically ticks me off on his computer. Job done.

Finally, I meet an old friend. Those familiar with this blog will instantly recognise him. Newcomers had better scroll to the top banner to see a photo taken two years ago. Today, he was wandering in the olive groves on the other side of the path where I first met him. He hee-hawed loudly in greeting. Then went back to his lunch. French through and through.

We knew it was coming. We heard the rumours. We viewed the forecast. We looked into the skies. We dashed to the washing line to bring in anybody’s washing that had no owners present to claim it. We compared notes. We went inside our various domains, shut the doors and waited. Not for long. The sky turned coal-black and the rain poured down. Lightening struck nearer and nearer. The thunder came closer and closer until the storm was directly overhead and the power was lost. We opened the doors again in order to breathe. It was the most dreadful storm that nature could deliver until…

…trapped indoors, with nothing but another bubbling artichoke for company, I turned to Facebook, only to discover that the storm was also wreaking havoc in Bournemouth. And Amsterdam. And, of course, their storms were far worse than my storm. I’m not a huge fan of FB but it was fun to spend five minutes comparing meteorological notes across Europe. By the way, I didn’t take this photo – too wet to step outside.

Yesterday witnessed a gathering of old friends in that secret place where the small spotted ponies live. Yesterday saw a confusion of arrangements where no-one arrived at the right time. Yesterday, two of us momentarily forgot we were in the south of France where no-one ever arrives at the right time. Apart from Peter who never goes out. Yesterday there was yet another distressing story of a lost cat, there was a guided tour around a new garden, there was sun and intense heat and there was confusion over lunch, resolved by this writer taking charge of yet another kitchen. Yesterday, Bev had a headache and the only known way home was barred by road works. Yesterday, we laughed a lot which is, sometimes, the only thing to do.

Tonight, there was news of a cat that had been found, an invitation to Sunday lunch and a storm that finally passed.

23 July: Forget the aqueducts, the chapels, the abbey and the unknown territory: today, I’m back in civilisation. I shower and put on make-up and a dress! What’s all this? I’m off to meet the famous author, Beverley Elphick O’Connor at the bar/tabac in St Remy for a wander round the market. Bev has an entourage now: a veritable flash mob of O’Connors and their various partners. One of the newer entrants to this crowd tries to distribute a list of shopping duties to all and sundry. I demand to know her star sign – Cancer. That would explain it, I inform her. My son’s Cancer and he’s keen on lists.

Bev and I have no duties save to catch up on news and purchase a few essentials: waterproof dressings, prunes and prawns and sit in a shady bar. After, we go back to the house where they’re all staying and where there’s a suggestion that the large lizard in the overhanging vines must surely be plastic. Until, bored with being studied at such close quarters, it scuttles away.

In the late afternoon, further civilisation. Back in the homeland, I’ve been told the stitches must be removed on Friday. After this, I may not swim for a further ten days. Today, I went to the medical centre in the village with a view to making an appointment for removal of offending stitches. You can knock me for knocking the NHS but this is how it happens in France:

I enter the surgery. There is no receptionist because doctors’ receptionists do not exist in France. I sit in the waiting room where there is one other patient. I ask the one other patient how to make an appointment. The one other patient looks surprised and says ‘there are no appointments, just sit down.’ The doctor appears at the door and the one other patient is more than happy for me to make my enquiries before he goes in. (Can you imagine that?) The doctor looks at my wound and says ‘sit down’. He sees the one other patient, then comes back for me.

In his office, he asks me about my holiday, asks me why I have five stitches in my shoulder and pulls the bed from the wall. He asks me to choose the position that will be the most comfortable – on my front – and removes the stitches. He asks whether I would like an antiseptic dressing. He applies an antiseptic dressing. He asks if I’m well. I ask when might it be possible to swim again. I’ve always had a problem with the verb that means ‘bathing’ as in having a wash and ‘bathing’ as in having a swim. I choose the wrong verb and the doctor is, for the first time, confused. Face down on the bed, I begin to do the breast stroke. The doctor asks whether I’m here to participate in the Avignon festival in which there are a lot of unusual acts and in which indoor swimming would not be deemed strange. The doctor is no longer confused. ‘Tomorrow’, he says. I fall in love with the doctor and tell him I’m a writer. ‘Peter Mayle’, he enquires? ‘Better’, I reply. The doctor says, ‘that will be 23 euro please’. I go to the supermarket and purchase a bottle of Crozes Hermitage and a packet of chocolate biscuits to celebrate.

Read Bev’s novel here : http://beverleyelphick.webeden.co.uk/

22 July: A few years ago, someone told me a story about a Roman aqueduct that transported water from the Alpilles across the plain to Arles. Having located one end of the remains, many, many years passed before the other end of the aqueduct was allegedly found by an Englishman in his garden near Fontvielle.

In the absolute middle of nowhere – well, nowhere I’ve ever been – I meet three old boys walking down a windy lane deep in conversation. Where had they come from and where were they going? Maybe they’re the French version of Last of the Summer Wine. I wind down the window and enquire as to the whereabouts of the Roman aqueduct. Naturally, this causes a huge amount of discussion and repetition of the words ‘Roman aqueduct’. One of them decides I need to be driving in the direction of Fontvielle, a notion with which the other two agree. As it happens, I’m currently on a road from Fontvielle. However, further arm waving and heated debate infers there might be a better road to Fontvielle; prettier perhaps; less overgrown; possibly not as lonely. There’s no apparent consensus. ‘I know’, I suggest, ‘I’ll turn round’. I make a helpful circling motion with my index finger. ‘Mais oui’, they all agree, ‘turn round’.

I jam my car, a la mode francais, into a small space on the side of the road along with three others. Looking up, I notice that I have, previously this morning, driven through the remains of an arch. I also spot a curly arrow painted in blue on a tree trunk. That would be the directions then.

People spent centuries looking for this aqueduct. When I tried to find it earlier, I could understand why it had taken them so long. Now I’ve finally located it, I can’t understand how they’d missed it. Surely it’s not another Glanum whereby folk spent eons wandering past a Roman triumphal arch outside St Remy without considering it might mark the entrance to somewhere – like a Roman city on the other side of the road that they didn’t notice until well into the twentieth century.

Ok, the aqueduct is in a state of disrepair but there’s still a lot of it: columns and arches marching past somebody’s garden and off into the olive groves for nearly a mile. You can imagine people in that house moaning about constant piles of rubble on the other side of their fence. Of course, this being France, they don’t give you any clues. Like a sign. Or a car park. If the concept of a visitor centre was ever introduced in this country, someone could make a fortune. Mind you, I like the idea of unspoilt heritage; it’s the unknown, uncared-for history that worries me.

Some way along, I see a sign and feel I might have been too judgemental: at last, there will be a placard to offer me historical information. The sign turns out to be an advert that the olive farmer has placed there in the interests of opportunistic marketing. Don’t get me wrong. This was a most fantastic experience amongst the groves that were fairly rattling with the sounds of cicadas. It truly can’t have been that different when the aqueduct was functioning – same (or similar) olive trees, same cicadas, same gigantic butterflies all under the same pristine blue skies.

At what seems to be the far end of the aqueduct, it’s possible to walk for a short way along the course the water would have taken. I tried it. Not one of my better ideas. The whole thing ends suddenly – obviously without any warning – at a point where there is a sheer drop onto the plain below. I don’t even make it to the end because I can see what’s coming. Instead, I clamber, with some difficulty, up a stony bank that is cleaved by ancient man-made grooves not designed for the footwear of the elderly. At least I can see the view without feeling the fear.

I think the story about the Englishman finding the end of an aqueduct in his garden was wrong. Of course they must have known this bit was here – it’s the other end that’s missing.

Wikipedia has a couple of interesting things to say about the Barbegal Aqueduct and Mill:

1) It has been acknowledged as the greatest known concentration of mechanical power in the ancient world.

2) It is not known if the authorities intend to restore the remains at some time in the future, or provide more information and assistance to visitors.

21 July: Taking the back route to Frigolet along the twists and turns of Barbentane, passing the old windmill and ascending the very steep climb into the wilderness, I was surprised to see a woman in a wheelchair speeding down the hill in the opposite direction. On the road I mean. Not on the side of the road but ON the actual road. Looks like fun, I thought. Not. Further up the hill, a maniacal, lycra-clad bullet on a bike sped downwards faster than the speed of sound or light. I wondered what the last thing he expects to find round the next bend might be.

Up at Frigolet, they’ve moved the gift shop. The gift shop has always been full of religious artefacts and bottles of the dangerously green liqueur the monks produce, neither of which hold much fascination for me. What has been of interest, however, for many years, is the fantastic crèche that used to be situated in the foyer of the old gift shop. I have written of this many times in other places but now, it’s nowhere to be seen. I ask Madame in the shiny new gift shop where the crèche is. ‘Gone’, she helpfully replies; ‘beautiful, wasn’t it?’ This is so bloody typical of the French: they’re forever harping on about patrimony and heritage and the centre culturel but they never look after anything really special.

I venture up the montangnette to examine the incoming weather. Despite the forecast, there seems to be little of any significance to report. I can see for miles in all directions and it’s true that it looks a bit black over towards the Luberon, but that’s miles away. Afterwards, I take a small coffee in the buvette. Apart from me, the only other people enjoying this oasis of calm are Monsieur, le patron, his underage assistant and an electrician seated under a shady sycamore engaged in something undemanding with a length of cable. I wonder, not for the first time, how these places survive year after gloriously uninterrupted year.

There are hundreds of acres of unspoilt countryside around Frigolet.If you have three and a half hours to spare, according to a random signpost, you can walk to Tarascon. I consider this as a possibility for the week that B & J will be here; they like a nice walk, those two.But what happens on arrival at Tarascon? I recall that Daudet wrote of a carriage that traversed the countryside between said town and Nimes around the turn of the twentieth century. Perhaps a bus service has since evolved in the opposite direction? But even if we could walk to Tarascon and unexpectedly locate a bus willing to return us safely to Rognonas, what would happen to the car we had left behind on top of the montagnette? It’s all very well trying to plan delightful days out for equally delightful friends but the logistics make my head hurt.

As I stood at the summit earlier, I saw a couple of people down below. They were pushing a bicycle across the vast expanse of rough, open and boulder-strewn land that comprises the flatter stages of the route across the little mountain tops. Not another soul was to be seen in any direction. If those two wanted only the companionship of each other, they could not have chosen a better place. I imagined them reaching the edge of the montagnette, happily locating a path and romantically freewheeling down and into Tarascon.

Next, I thought about yesterday’s torrential rain and the thunder and lightening that had pitched us into darkness. I looked upwards and noticed that what had earlier been a few rogue clouds, had now linked arms to form larger masses that were intermittently blocking out the sun. I looked back down at the tiny four-legged, two-wheeled entity that was, pioneer-like, crossing the plain totally wrapped up in itself and I thought – sod that for a game of cowboys.

July 20: When I was sitting in the pool yesterday, two young lads arrived and said hello. They were around 16 or 17 years of age and reminded me of slightly older versions of a couple of boys that were here last year. I carried on reading. Those two retrieved a frisbee and a ball from the dark recesses behind the pizza oven and proceeded to do what young lads do with a frisbee and a ball.

This involves one lad being on one side of the pool throwing said items at his pal who’s on the opposite side. There are two other rules to this game, one of which necessitates a lot of screaming and whooping. The second rule is that, although the pool and surrounding area is vast, and there were no other onlookers apart from me, it’s essential to play the game as close as possible to anyone else in the vicinity. Mindful of my wound, I removed myself from the water and commandeered one of the twenty free sunbeds. A third rule apparently states that those who are not in the water must not be made to feel ignored. The two young lads closed in. Much later in the evening, I could still hear those two making their strange animal like noises. It’s not a problem, but I reflected that every time I come here, there seems to be young lads of an age whereby whooping is an integral part of well-being; a mildly irritating coincidence. This morning, I was greeted by their mother who also looked like a woman who was here last year. That’s because she was here last year as, of course, were those two young lads. ‘Hello’, she said pleasantly. ‘Alex told me you were back’. I wish I had a well-functioning memory.

Yesterday evening, the heat having built to an almost unbearable intensity, we were promised an overnight storm. The rain stayed away and, apart from a single and distant growl of thunder, so did the storm. A sleepless night of tropical proportions followed. This morning, in brilliant sunshine, I drove to Chateaurenard in search of a chicken. On arrival, the heavens opened and I was trapped in the car thinking about the two umbrellas that have been thoughtfully left in my cabanon. Eventually, of course, the rain ceased and the chicken was procured. The chicken purveyor demanded to know whether Madame preferred ‘ordinaire’ or some other specimen whose provenance I was unable to determine. So much for my brilliant command of other folk’s language: with hindsight, ‘some other type’ clearly means one that is not ancient, dry and withered. Very disappointing.

Passed an industrious couple of hours in finishing Diary of a Nobody and making inroads on the third chapter of the interminably tedious proofreading project I have undertaken to partly finance this sojourn. I am already heartily sick of the political situation in Indonesia. Decided to reward myself by beginning a new book – Red or Dead – by or in the pool. I’ve either uploaded or downloaded said volume onto my hated Kindle which I only use on holidays for a variety of reasons that are nearly as boring as the political situation in Indonesia.

Spent ten minutes poolside trying to locate Red or Dead but couldn’t seem to get past the final chapter of Our Mutual Friend which I read here last year. During these fraught minutes, some sort of meteorological disturbance occurred of which I was unaware until I realised the sky had turned black and a wind of mistral-like proportions had arrived from nowhere. A small boy who had been swimming happily in the pool a few minutes earlier was, along with yours truly, covered in a veritable shower of unwanted flotsam that was raining upon us from the surrounding trees. The small boy, who had previously ignored the old woman tapping furiously on a Kindle in search of Bill Shankly, looked at me for some explanation. My explanation was to pull an even stranger face, shrug my shoulders, gather my belongings and leave. The small boy ran after me. ‘Go away small boy’.

And so the storm finally broke. Back indoors, I began with good intentions of using the time to continue with the bloody Indonesian situation in the company of a plate of yellow plums. However, the electricity was cut and, plunged into darkness, there was no alternative to taking yet another nap. A woman of my age who has to go to work clearly has a lot of catching up to do in the sleep department.

I’m back outside. The man in the gite opposite my patio is busy teaching his baby to say ‘I am a naughty boy’. Doubtless, the child will grow with a minimal sense of self-worth.

19 July: Karil wrote the other day to say the weather was warming up nicely for my home-coming. It used to take me a couple of days to acclimatise but today I felt like an old hand the minute I’d left the noisy propeller-propelled little plane behind on the runway at Avignon Airport.

The morning, that for me had begun at 3.45am, was overcast. However, even though I’d abandoned similar temperatures at home, the heat here still hits with its intensity. There was only one surprise. I’d purchased a new holdall of a design that would be easily identifiable on the carousel: it has a black background covered in swirls and squiggles and geometric shapes of purple, blue and green. It makes me think of observing a gigantic sack of licquorice allsorts whilst experiencing a particularly bad migraine. It’s an especially unpleasant object but one I felt would do the trick to the extent it was unnecessary to adorn it with labels of identification. The surprise was that, for the first time ever, my holdall was the first to appear on the carousel. On reflection, perhaps the very sight of it had caused the baggage handlers so much distress, they had got rid of it as soon as possible.

Early retrieval of the hateful bag meant I was second in the bad-tempered queue for the hire-car pick-up. Madame, the receptionist, enquired whether I’d prefer to conduct business in French or English. I bravely replied that it was of little consequence; whereupon, she remarked that as my French was so good, I should reserve English for more important matters. I took the compliment on board somewhat dubiously: what can be more important than ensuring one doesn’t sign up for expensive premier insurance? Having once been hospitalised for eight days in Avignon, at a venue where no-one confessed to speaking English, I failed to think of an appropriate example. Still, I had to give my mobile number in English; let’s face it, I can’t remember what it is at home, let alone try to recall the correct sequence whilst simultaneously translating. And the crowds behind were becoming restless.

Next, off on that familiar road with a short pit-stop at Intermarche to collect supplies: salad, fruit, cheese, bread, wine and toilet rolls before onwards to Rognonas and a very long siesta.

The heat is oppressive and a storm looms. I would have liked to swim but the business with the stitches means I had to content myself with sitting in the water in the company of Diary of a Nobody. I am reliably informed that I may arrive, without appointment, at the medical centre next Thursday whereupon someone will remove offending stitches.

So now I sit writing on my little patio along with the chattering cicadas and another old friend – the Rasteau. In the Cabanon, two globe artichokes are bubbling away and a round of St Felicien is crawling along the counter. Tomorrow, weather permitting, I will go to Chateaurenard to purchase a chicken from the market which should see me through until France re-opens on Monday afternoon. Bon nuit.

I went to dinner with friends the other Saturday evening. There was a time when this would be hardly worth mentioning: a time when I was always out and about; a time when, if not out, folk would be pouring through my front door in droves to eat, drink and be exceptionally merry. It must have all changed around the same time that my face did.

In that other country we call ‘the past’, I would read accounts written by people who, having hitherto believed themselves indestructible, looked in the mirror one morning to discover that they had inexplicably aged overnight. With no apparent warning, life had caught up and was busy overtaking in the fast lane. One particularly memorable example was Vera Brittain, recalling in Testament of Youth – a singularly ironic title – how she had found herself unexpectedly sporting a beard. I believe she was eighteen at the time.

How boringly clichéd it all seemed to me as a person who was always mistaken for someone much younger than I really was; a woman of self-esteem who would never develop hair where it wasn’t wanted. Ever heard of threading? Now, I regularly subject myself to public torture in the local shopping centre where beautiful Asian women apply their rolls of cotton to painfully remove hair at follicle level.

‘Going anywhere nice’, colleagues ask as I leave work early? ‘Just off to get my eyebrows and moustache seen to’, I reply sadly. Only once did the beautiful Asian woman ask whether I’d like my beard done. She never asked again. And as for the wrinkles – well don’t get me started. On alternate days, I swim at 6.30am. I rebuild my face with increasingly expensive make-up in a changing room devoid of natural light. I arrive at work inwardly smug at my early morning exercise. I also arrive at work looking like Coco the Clown and have to allocate time to filling in the lines that were, apparently, non-existent an hour before. Maybe I should live permanently under electric light, although not of the wattage they employ in elevators: I used to avoid lifts because I suffered from claustrophobia; I’m over that – more terrified of the woman in the mirror these days!

So, back to the dinner with friends. That would be friends of a similar age of whom I see less and less. This isn’t because we’ve become unsociable in our decline: it’s because, like me, they spend most of their precious weekends with their grown-up children. It’s another overused adage that the number of friends one has decreases as one ages. Illness and death aside, it has to have something to do with a lack of personal energy to move further afield and the desire to participate in the life of younger folk. Thankfully, I work with those largely aged between 18 – 23 years who are far more interesting than most people of my demographic. Don’t get me wrong – my life seems to have got more varied as it’s progressed, even with the excess facial hair; and I haven’t finished yet. It’s just that, well…

…I went to a conference in London the other week. The subject matter is irrelevant. The point is that, at a juncture where we participated in the obligatory group activity, the conversation turned to aged parents and how they refuse to do as they’re advised. Aged parents insist on living their precarious lives away from younger members of their families in isolated locations where buses never dare to venture. Aged parents are often on the case regarding the internet but insistent in their dislike of mobile phones: they don’t charge them; if they do charge them, they forget to take them out; and if they do charge them and take them out, they refuse to switch them on. After we’d exhausted that topic, we talked about our pensions. Or the lack of them.

When I went to dinner the other evening we didn’t have to do any group activities apart from eating. We didn’t even do group drinking as the days when one chose between dangerously driving home and kipping on a sofa are long gone. We just had a nice chat – about aged parents and non-existent pensions. To be fair, we made valiant efforts to move onto something more interesting – books we’ve read, films we’ve seen; before falling into the lives of our children. It was nice. It was boring.

I write this on the eve of my father’s birthday. He will be 88 tomorrow. My mother will have a birthday in a couple of weeks and will be 85. They’re off to an hotel somewhere or other to celebrate for a couple of days. They won’t be taking the mobile phone and if they do it won’t be charged; and if it is, it won’t be as switched on as they are. Happy birthday both.

It’s been a bad week one way and another. The only way through this day was to keep thinking of a bottle of the red stuff tonight and a lay-in tomorrow. I arrived home at the Twilight Zone with fresh flowers to adorn my soon-to-be clean house, checking my time-piece to see how much longer it would be until the sun was over the yard-arm, only to find my miniscule parking slot wreathed in one of Dave’s serpent-like hoses. Dave was in his garage – I waved as I went past so I know this. However, after successfully manoeuvring between two inefficiently parked vehicles, whilst checking to ensure I hadn’t killed Dave’s hose, I looked up to see him virtually on the bonnet of my car.

‘Is that hose in your way’, Dave enquired? This is Dave’s way of asking whether I’d run over it.

‘Can I have a quiet word’, he continued? ‘In the garage?’ My heart sunk.

Dave’s garage, like everyone else’s round here, is too small to house a car. That doesn’t stop them all mysteriously acquiring other folk’s though. I’d been here three years before I discovered that, at one distant point in time, my house had a garage. Chris purloined it after his wife died. The wife used to live in my house. Chris lived in the house opposite. Now Chris is dead and I suppose the new people have ‘bought’ it.

Dave wanted to know whether I’d heard the night-time buzzing again. He knows I haven’t because I told him when he asked last time. And the time he told me it was down to fish mating. Turns out that someone has now reported him to the council for buzzing after dark. It’s not me but I can guess who it was. It’s the person who thinks Dave is illegally transporting electricity into his house from his garage via a hose.

Just as I was explaining this – no names, no pack drill – Frank rushed round the corner on his zimmer frame.

‘Hello Frank. Doing the full lap today?’

Frank was in a mood. He shouted some choice abuse at the postman who had made the mistake of walking by before asking whether I’d like to see his arse. I declined the offer. Frank said he didn’t know why I was so fussy; everyone that comes in his house wants to see his bloody arse. He keeps his trousers down most of the time just to be helpful. Dave advised Frank to mind the hose but Frank was off.

I asked Dave what he was going to do about the council. He’s already phoned them up and told them the buzzing is due to the mating fish. Fortunately, he’s saved the link to this piece of evidence on his computer. That’s ok then.

I’d finally made it to the relative safety of my front door when Adrian jumped out from behind his van to tell me he’d seen a lot of foreign looking people yesterday.

‘Where was that then’, I politely enquired?

‘Heathrow’.

Nearly wine o clock.

The 5.05 from London Town back to the sticks is packed. Why so? It’s the fastest train in the universe. Only the front five coaches of this straight-lined serpent are going to Bournemouth. Those aiming for Brockenhurst, Hinton Admiral, New Milton and any other rural non-entities are obliged to pay the price of choosing to live in the back of beyond and sit at the rear where their carriages will be ignominiously detached at Southampton in readiness for the crawl home whilst we speed onwards.

I choose a seat at the front of the fifth coach with plenty of room for my poor legs that have passed the day squashed into something resembling half their natural length by lack of activity. My precious resting sanctuary bears a sign that instructs me to offer it freely to anyone who arrives with a disability. It would be difficult to discern who this might be – the area in front is filled with folk who have found the bar and the tables become increasingly filled with almost-empty cans of lager. Men in smart suits complain when the train jerks and the unexpected remaining contents spill over their pristine Italian shoes.

A young couple materialise. They are weighed down by copious baggage and a small child of about three years named Eva. Eva smiles at me and I am surprised. Small children are not naturally or normally drawn in my direction: they are astute enough to notice the pointed black hat I wear. Eva wears a purple jumper, a blue denim skirt, blue tights with pink spots, brown boots and has the biggest head in the world. The top of her head is normal and she’s a pretty girl but something has gone wrong under her mouth. The place where her jaws and chin might normally reside is taking over.

Eva has been to the hospital in London Town. She gurgles a lot. Loudly. Around her neck she wears a band, attached to which is a tube. At regular intervals, one or other of her parents unpacks the bag and selects a freshly anaesthetised  wire which they fasten to the tube to drain the blockage that is causing the gurgle. The parents choose to stand amongst the lager drinkers and converse with each other. Eva and I sit together. I’m reading Our Mutual Friend. Eva is watching and listening to videos on her dad’s phone through a set of bright pink headphones. I lean towards her and she to me. Our Mutual Comfort.

We speed through the black night, occasionally illuminated by the lights of queuing cars on passing roads or ghost-like stations at which no-one will ever disembark. The man with the expensive shoes asks the lager drinkers whether they will remove their empty cans. I wonder whether the space where Eva’s chin should be will become so large that it will, at some point, stop her eating.