I post another story on One Fine Day yesterday. It is called Still Counting. The stories come into my head for the most part early in the morning when I am half asleep. A correspondence with Lorenzo da Ponte whom I must get used to calling by his real name Roderick Robinson, on the nature of short stories, meanwhile serves to stimulate the story-telling nerve. This morning, a story which has been lurking in the shadows comes into the light. But another, which I recall effectively rounding off, has disappeared from my memory. Where has it gone? Anyone seen it lying about? I am hoping desperately for it to return, for having drafted it in my mind, I thought it good enough to go back rather smugly to sleep.
Geoff at The Compasses says that when he used to sit outside the pub called The Bedford on the corner of The High Street and Vale Road, he once photocopied some £20 notes and glued them to the pavement. Entertainment followed as passers-by stooped to pick them up or poked at them with the ferules of rolled umbrellas while looking over their shoulders first to see if anyone was watching.