Tuesday, 16 March 2010

Work is vile. But then we know that. Why even mention it? Next thing I know, I'll be telling you about my trips to the toilet. Stay tuned.

But I'll be positive. Today was one of those rare silver days in summer. Rain on the grass outside, the smell of earth, and a grey sky, and under it, an intimate kind of half-light all around. I'd swear the birds sing louder on days like these. Hell, Fran sang in the shower, too. Something about rainbows and lullabies. An odd kind of ditty for a grown woman to be singing. But then, any kind of ditty is an odd one for a grown woman to be singing. She’s an odd one all round.

Why have I not heard that melody before though? It's a nice one, that. The sort you'd think you'd know.

Fran’s yellow carnations are starting to open out. They look smart, in front of that silver toaster. You can see their reflections in the chrome. If all the Liberal Democrats in the land stood in a line and flowered, this is what they would look like.

I had another strange conversation with Fran. There have been quite a few like this recently. Perhaps one day I will come back to this record of my days and begin to understand what the hell she’s on about, but for now, I am very much confused.

‘Oh - I remembered, Mr Tate -’
‘Joe, if you will...’
‘The toilet downstairs wasn’t flushing last night.’
‘Fran, there isn’t a toilet downstairs.’
‘Oh - ignore me then, Mr Tate. I’m talking rubbish again.’

She's not quite right in the head, I think. Still, I asked her about Bel - it's important to talk to mad people once in a while, for a fresh perspective. Fran listened, and looked gravely intelligent. She said that it’s always difficult to meet good people. The good people never notice you.

I can't help feeling disappointed by that answer. She’s obviously not up to the William Blake standard of mad visionary. I reckon I could have come up with that myself.