Thursday, June 04, 2009
springs, tooth, pubs
In a skip, the remains of a bed.
At the dentists, the hygienist, as she taps and scrapes away, asks, rhetorically because my mouth being open, I am precluded from replying, " how's the tombstone?"I take very little specific interest in what is going on in my mouth, having so far refrained from having nicknames for individual teeth or desired to know their intimate secrets. When I am able to speak again I ask her about the tombstone. "It's just a name for an old tooth. Yours seems to be hanging on," she says, " a bit wobbly, but still sound." I think to myself that apart from its provenance, it has quite a lot in common with its owner.
Outside Sevenoaks railway station, there were two pubs, at both of which, when I lived in that town, I used to drink from time to time. Today, as I emerge from the station I realize that neither - The Farmers Arms nor the Railway and Bicycle - is there any more. Both are holes in the ground to be developed as blocks of flats or offices. A melancholy end to friendly and often welcome refuges.
On Compasses, the dialogue proceeds. Lucy reveals what she is waiting for.