“The Writer”, wakes up dizzy and with a sore throat. The trouble with people with vivid imaginations is that they tend to imagine whatever’s uppermost in their mind at the time. Friends who have been staying at their son’s new house in Scotland to help with house painting, are trying to decide whether to stay up there or come home to London . The house is in the middle of nowhere so they’d be mad to come home, though I’ll ‘miss’ them, illogical when I won’t be able to see them either way. We’re still walking daily in the park, feeling every time we close the front door behind us that going out is a transgressive and, therefore, thrilling act. Today, the Pelicans who live on a tiny island in the middle of the lake, have put on a show for the tourists, who seem to be reluctant to return to wherever they came from. The huge, lumbering birds land on one of the park benches, chosen for its position facing the sun, and look benignly at the tourists still gathering in large tight-knit groups, ooh-ing and ah-ing and taking selfies with the uncomplaining creatures.
Locked down in London 