The car has to go into the garage to have its gear box fixed. We pulled into a service station on Saturday and suddenly the gear lever was just flopping about in its mounting, unconnected to the gears. Ailz has been ringing the garage all morning but the word from the receptionist is they're "mowed out" (visions of scythes and/or machine guns). It wouldn't matter so much, but we're booked to go to London at the end of the week and we've already bought tickets for the big exhibitions at the R.A. and Tate Britain.
I always thought a lot about death, but it never used to be personal. Now I'm continually conscious of the old chap waiting in ambush somewhere up ahead. Any time now he could step out onto the path in front of me, scythe on shoulder, wagging his boney fore-finger. Two quotes from turn of the century literary panjandrums march up and down in my head, trajectories crossing. "Death must be an awfully big adventure". "So this is it, that distinguished thing".