You probably drink too much black coffee. You don’t smoke. You keep fit by taking the dog for long walks.
When you were small you saw a shooting star and were convinced it was for you. You tried to imagine where it landed. In a pond with a hiss. Or clattering down a rooftop a few streets away.
People never took you seriously, or seriously enough. You had the big secret and you weren’t going to tell anyone. You used to write messages in your food.
You prefer Wednesdays to Thursdays. The clouds gather over the sea. Someone has left a teabag in the sink.
I saw you in the supermarket. You seemed to be taking your time. You stopped suddenly and gazed into the middle distance, it looked as if you were concentrating on something. Perhaps you had forgotten your list.
You’re walking the dog along the front. The sea crashes against the cliffs, several homes are perilously close to the edge, a couple of bungalows and a large white detached house. They’ll have to move out soon, lose everything. Can you imagine that? You go into the kitchen to put the kettle on and there’s nothing, just the sea, and everything inside starts to slide, you try clinging on to something, a cupboard door, a table, but it’s all moving inexorably into the huge, wild, hungry, grey waves.
It was rosemary. You need to remember rosemary.