the apothecary’s bottles have been drained and i even thought of raiding the bramble covered house where you and bob discovered that cache of pills back in the eighties. the lingering bream cough was banished with the final spoonful of syrup that was a day in front of a linewinder fire spent reading ‘one last void’ and being transported to a corner of kent that is now long extinct, the view from an imaginary swim on the medway, the one that boyd tonkin always fishes with a winfield allegro, a pocketful of plastifol maggots and a typewriter with half the keys missing. well done, it’s a tours de force, a worthy fourth novel and not many make it that far so put another log on the fire and crack open the pelforth. my only confession is that i marked and skipped the pages where chambers was in hospitals and homes, i can only do empty houses these days. far too many ghosts and smells that catch in the throat even now. most of the time i live out the back of oakfield with an eye on the sky a word for no-one and a wild boar strung up in the barn. are you going to write a third kent novel and complete the trilology? you should. before they cover the garden of england with pylons and starter homes. your pen is filled with the same poisoned ink that sinclair uses. it tastes better than champagne. your mad old butcher will be stocking it soon and selling it in vials to maigret’s wife down the cafe.
to see out the old year and ring in the new john richardson went to aldermaston and had a day chasing jacks. as the light went and the smoke crept out of the chimney pots i had a sergeant major on the smallest minnow from the christmas tree.
caravan imaginary like all good things.
burning secondary modern on the bird table