Sunday: British Summer Time arrives. You’re thrown off kilter, as if you weren’t feeling disoriented enough. All day it’s later than you think. The March sun stretches needlessly into evening. There’ll be plenty of opportunity for long evenings as summer matures. Why tinker with time?
Didi staring at a customer sitting on his own in the cafe this morning: what are you eating? (Fish.) Later, back to harrass the same customer: where’s the fish gone?
Rush to the window
across the sky a Goodyear airship