Dreamland

Even he, the man who never apologises, is contrite now. Fawning, making cups of tea, vowing not to drink so much, promising to change. And so, wearily, we trudge the ups and downs of the familiar circuit, the stair carpet wearing threadbare with our comings and goings on this well-worn route. The magic would only work if I believed it, and hope lost its ability to triumph over experience in these matters a long while ago. I’m tired of riding his rollercoaster, I don’t think I’m going to do it any more.

A lot of things are striking chords at the moment: today it has been Jonathan Coe in the audio-Maxwell Sim as I tramp around the pool. Or rather one of his fictional people: a Northern girl called Caroline who we don’t yet know much about, who will be perhaps a main figure or perhaps just an aside, a device to shed light on her ex-husband’s character.

“How can I love a man who doesn’t love himself?” she asked (just before she left, actually). How indeed can you love a man who doesn’t love himself, and extends his dark world-view to those who, for whatever reason, stand close? He wears his own personal cloud, and everything around him must also fall under its shadow.

And yet, I am not miserable here. The sun is hot, the water is clear, no domestic chores to suck up my time so I can read and I can write. I can listen to the girls laughing, splashing in the pool: one of the best sounds in the world. I can swim and sleep and eat seafood and, yes, I can daydream.