A fortnight's time

 

 

…I will be packing my bag for the sleeper train to London. And between now and then? I will be imminently distracted, because I will be carrying with me my hopes and anxieties, like giant marshmallows.

 

I am planning what clothes to wear. I am planning what sights to see when I’m down. I’m staring at my current ms, the first fifty pages of which I gave to my agent a while ago. I’m beginning to reach the end of the novel, and can almost touch the edges of it if I unfocus my eyes and reach out. I’m thinking of my first ms, Kilea, which, I hope, I hope, there will be news about.

 

I’m thinking of how I’ll meet my good friends in the city. Of dinner and tea and wine and good cheer. I’m thinking of how I will record the journey – how many more photos I will take this time than I did in the winter earlier this year. I’m thinking of the speeding fields, the grind of the train’s wheels on the track, rocking me and my shored up self to sleep. I’m thinking of standing on the platform, saying goodbye to D, saying hello (or walking home to meet him, because I will be early returning). I’m thinking of paintings on a gallery wall. Of statuary and modern installations. I’m thinking of London in the rain, or in the cold sun. A cup of tea I shall drink by myself in Euston station, or hold in my hands, walking, dawdling, through streets filled with people with their heads bent low or looking up to catch my eye or glance away. The whole trip one great anticipatory swirl, in other words.

 

My heart is swollen and my head dizzy. I visit many of your blogs, and find my fingers mute. My hopes get in the way. My writing is my all right now. Whatever happens, two weeks from now.

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