Pangs

What is there to write on days like today when I don’t do a thing, think a thing, and there's nothing different from a thousand other days? This is why I float the possibility of writing only-when-inspired.

I set out for Tesco in foul drizzle and with a nervy feeling gnawing away at my belly, because tonight was the night Jackie's friend Samantha was supposed to come and arrange a date. It was that same feeling I got on the bus journey from middle school to the swimming baths or those games lessons where I had to do gym exercises. All the way there on the bus I concocted elaborate excuses, but none of them were needed: despite my fearful anticipation, she never showed up, and things were as mundane and normal as ever.

I felt very calm and contented in the evening. Mum and Dad talked about their love of walking and the intense pleasure they feel at certain moments amid moorland desolation. Dad said he gets fleeting pangs of longing as he gazes out on the garden at dawn.

I rearranged a visit to see Rob & Carol at the weekend. I am looking forward to it. Mum has ordered my paints for my birthday and says she would like to paint too.