Limpid green, a second scene

Shelley, Lindsey and Shawn called at eleven this morning, getting us up out of bed, Shawn as uncommunicative as ever, Shelley all smiles and giggles, Lindsey quiet and confident-seeming.

Not much else for the rest of the day, Pete and Mo retreating into the chaos of the front bedroom and a great quiet descending on the house.

In the evening Pete and I caught the bus into Watermouth and met Mo, then Lindsey and Susie, in The Frigate. It was just like old times, as though three months had never been; the acrid tang of cigarette smoke hanging in blue wreaths above the table, the endless procession to the bar for scrumpy at 80p a pint (green when held up to the light), the same mood. . . . I could feel the months evaporate: what only a few days ago had been remote and almost unimaginable—a shadow of the past—was a familiar scene, again all around me.

We got a bit drunk and went noisily home on the bus, Mo teasing me because I dribbled my drink in the pub. More key problems when we got back, which Pete solved by scaling the fall pipe to the bathroom window, breaking the latter as he climbed in.