A slow Sunday into which I emerged late, having slept until midday (the previous night's sleep had come only at 4am thanks to aforementioned dogs, hard bed and tumultuous dreams. The gardener was already at work in the garden. He wore the star emblem of the Zion Christian Church, which made his presence here on a Sunday even more surprising, and had the face and name (Hendrik) of an older generation. He felt a bit like the character from my script, 25 years on. His lunch differed from ours, and he ate it outside.
After lunch was a trip to the Light Music Society, a gathering of older folks who come each month to the Roosevelt Community Centre to be reminded about what they listened to before music became the thing of nostalgia. Half were asleep by the time the third track had been played, so the host – who described himself as being at the helm – brought out the heavy artillery, switching from obscure numbers to showstoppers from Broadway hits. The final song of his set had folks swaying to a tune from Guys and Dolls, followed by rapturous applause. (This performance was missed by Trevor who had to dash home: the alarm had been set but not bypassed in the garden, meaning Hendrik the gardener had alerted the armed response thanks to the simple act of having planted some bulbs.)
The garden swelled with birds. Thunder rolled in with the promise but not the delivery of rain. The day slipped away as they do.
Only a late-night Skype session with the Fink warded of other demons. Those that remain in my thoughts cannot be countered. The sense of dread is pervasive.
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