The entire country as far south as London is covered in deep snow, yet we've escaped with rain to date. I like that novel feeling of newness and the world being different after it’s snowed, the white landscape beyond the windows somehow dwarfing the usual day to day concerns of the scurriers in the snow . . .
I read Hemingway throughout the afternoon while the others played cards and watched snooker on TV in the front room. Weather wet, with intermittent sun, cars splashing through the rain, the noise of kids on their way home from school.
At 4 p.m., Lee and I walked down to the Wickbourne Road to Old John's fleamarket to buy a brass camping stove for £4 but it was closed. I fantasise about moving into a place on my own, so I'll be protected from my own weaknesses—not have a TV, just a radio and my books and records . . .
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