Waiting games.
Wednesday and Thursday were spent hanging around Miranda’s. It hasn’t been cold, but the wind up on the side of the hill has been extreme. On the walk up and down it’s been strange to see the gradual creep of decorations for Christmas. I don’t know what to do about that. Norman has no interest, and Angela’s preference for demons means she’s never had time for the birth of Christ. Samuel hasn’t been around to ask. The subject sneaks into my friends’ conversations. I have cards that I doubt I’ll put up.
There were seagulls in Hillsborough park yesterday. A flock of them kept swooping down on everyone, putting the pigeons to shame. I wonder if they were blown in by the wind. There’s been no sign of movement in the gallery.
I took some gardening stuff with me up to Miranda’s, after a suggestion from Norman, which he later told me was a joke. I don’t know how convinced the suspicious neighbour was, but I had a reason to be there if anyone asked, and the borders in her back garden are looking much tidier.
Today the house was pretty quiet. Angela stormed out after breakfast, muttering about the man being insufferable. Norman, of course, retreated upstairs, leaving me on my own, except for the telly. Still no sign of Samuel. In Samuel’s room, most of his things are still there. It’s like he’s only gone to the shop.
It occurred to me that the artists in Miranda’s gallery might have new contact details for her, if she’s changed her phone. She’d want to keep in touch with people who can make her money. If I can get in touch with the artists, I doubt they’d know she doesn’t want to be found by me. But the only way to find them is to break in to the gallery, and I want to see inside her house first.
I ended up re-reading the letter from R.K. since the rain hasn’t stopped all day. I’ve been wondering about the Sixties – what he did then, and if you knew him yet. Is this photo of a man with schemes?
It’s likely Miranda came back, after Samuel had changed the locks, in order to steal something more significant, but her key no longer worked. What I can’t understand is what she was hoping for, or what value she put on dead objects. It was Samuel’s theory – always full of theories and proverbs – that the theft was based on restored values, but that was before we knew it was personal.
There were seagulls in Hillsborough park yesterday. A flock of them kept swooping down on everyone, putting the pigeons to shame. I wonder if they were blown in by the wind. There’s been no sign of movement in the gallery.
I took some gardening stuff with me up to Miranda’s, after a suggestion from Norman, which he later told me was a joke. I don’t know how convinced the suspicious neighbour was, but I had a reason to be there if anyone asked, and the borders in her back garden are looking much tidier.
Today the house was pretty quiet. Angela stormed out after breakfast, muttering about the man being insufferable. Norman, of course, retreated upstairs, leaving me on my own, except for the telly. Still no sign of Samuel. In Samuel’s room, most of his things are still there. It’s like he’s only gone to the shop.
It occurred to me that the artists in Miranda’s gallery might have new contact details for her, if she’s changed her phone. She’d want to keep in touch with people who can make her money. If I can get in touch with the artists, I doubt they’d know she doesn’t want to be found by me. But the only way to find them is to break in to the gallery, and I want to see inside her house first.
I ended up re-reading the letter from R.K. since the rain hasn’t stopped all day. I’ve been wondering about the Sixties – what he did then, and if you knew him yet. Is this photo of a man with schemes?
It’s likely Miranda came back, after Samuel had changed the locks, in order to steal something more significant, but her key no longer worked. What I can’t understand is what she was hoping for, or what value she put on dead objects. It was Samuel’s theory – always full of theories and proverbs – that the theft was based on restored values, but that was before we knew it was personal.
posted by The son of Edward Fold at 2:51 am
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