There’s a big fire with animal bones, some large bits of coral dried out. That’s a storm closing in. I’m carving something into the pub table. The TV cut out a few minutes ago but the shipping forecast is on on repeat. They’re bringing in firewood which is still alive and covered in leaves and moss. I’m wandering round on the village green, the sun’s starting to come out a bit. You’re taking off your overcoat. My chair’s legs are splintered from a cat scratching them. A few mushrooms have emerged from the moss. Someone’s turned up the shipping forecast, it repeats for the fifth or sixth time. I‘m at the top of the hill looking down. The pub is lit up by a single ray of light. The grandfather clock chimes for the hour, but it’s actually a bit later than that. A drunk’s trying to play the piano but it’s massively out of tune, the strings are rusty I think. He’s shut the lid over the keys and put his pint down onto it, it slides off and breaks over the carpet. I left my wallet on the bar. When I go to pick it up all my coins fall out. I receive a text message. The barkeep has left the tap on, the floor behind the bar is a few inches deep in lager. The chef throws a vat of soup through the front window and the cold starts coming in, the lights are sort of flickering. I’m scattering cutlery over the floor and packets of sauces. Now it’s dark inside I leave, the chalk man carved into the hillside is still clearly visible. People are turning their lights on in their living rooms but aren’t really closing their curtains. I can see people drinking tea and eating toast with jam. I’ve thrown my jacket onto a compost heap. There are a few wreaths on the war memorial, I’m picking one up and put it on. Every time I feel compelled to do this. I feel strangely aware of the stonework here. The electric is almost out, I need to buy more credit. Fog is starting to descend from the sea, the clock on the church’s shrouded a bit now. The door is warped and heavy but I can just about get it closed again after me.
