November 4

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.