To Neath, dropping Graham off on the train to Somerset. Not directly to Somerset but to Cardiff first, and then to Somerset.
It’s a truth that not all trains lead to Somerset.
And then, back round the town to Morrison’s supermarket where I wanted a couple of bits to adjust our weekly shop to single catering. I shall do a single catering trip to Sainsbury’s on Tuesday, once the May Bank Holiday is out of the way.
I’d already determined that I should take lunch in the mini-restaurant at Morrison’s, and did so. Faggots, mash and peas, with onion gravy. It was awfully good and I managed to confine the collateral damage to one tiny gravy splash on my new ‘grandad’ t-shirt.
I think that the real problem with Neath, as with so many other towns, is that it is too small for the population it serves. You can add only so many suburbs to a small town before it begins to disintegrate under the pressure. If there were a solution to this problem in the real world rather than on the drawing boards of theoretical architects I would happy move there. Perhaps. I have no desire to move from where I seem to have settled.
And now, in the evening after a good afternoon nap, Dolly is seeking to go out into her catio to breath the last of the sun-purified air. A very different day than yesterday. Wonderful what a bit of sun will do.
I suppose I must mark the day when the laureateship passed from Motion to Duffy. I am pleased that Andrew Motion has been able to lay down the burden, and hope that Ms Duffy doesn’t find it too uncomfortable a fit. Me, I don’t write poems to order. Indeed, I don’t to anything to order.
