TUESDAY 19
I’m avoiding the
little huts in town for the
first time this season.
WEDNESDAY 20
She brushes her hair
back. ‘Genetic. My father
had a white streak too.’
THURSDAY 21
The film to stop the
sun encroaching is ripped. No
sun shines through the gap.
FRIDAY 22
It’s beginning to
feel a lot like Christmas, dank,
gloomy, dark at four.
SATURDAY 23
I look up and see
a dog, pale cream, sharp-faced, a
ghost, I think at first.
SUNDAY 24
Stalls along the main
street in Tewkesbury. I do well
on the tombolas.
MONDAY 25
I wear a knitted
turban like my grandmother’s
against wind and rain.
Seventeen 