Around 6 o'clock, I get up for a pee, and, just for a minute, switch on radio 4 (BBC world service at this time on Sunday). It is not to wake me up, but rather to top up my dreams which are losing definition and crowding out of my head. I hear a woman's voice (American) talking about the interconnectivity of the universe. "We are not separate from nature", she is saying; "We are part of it. We are not part of a hierarchy as we used to believe; we are part of a holarchy. Then she quotes someone, who said: "Pick a flower, and you'll move the furthest star". As good a s a dream.
In the sun, after the rain, everthing looks washed. Tiny drops glitter in the grass, on bracken, on the leaves of trees. The tarmac on paths shines like a mirror. Steams rises
There are benches in the High Street, with wooden slats, and cast iron frames, painted a sort of faded burgundy. I haven't looked closely at them before, and, this afternoon, note for the first time that the lateral frames curl over, behind the backrest, in the shape of lion's heads. Moulded into the side of the frames, the face of a lion stares out from beneath the seat on either side.