The flame flickers, the gas burner burns. Both beautiful, but one more.
It’s a question of memory, what I can remember from the night before. Trying to fix that damn bicycle at 11pm in the kitchen, messing it up and now the gears don’t even shift. All these moments which form part of the sequence, and where that sequence ends is the person we finally are/were, the question is who I want that person to be, an incessant question that nags in the background of my mind…
Notes are thrown down to try and actually move with this thing. Christmas comes and there are the reports; 67 to do of all different ages and characters. In those 1,000 or so words trying to communicate something as a teacher. Trying to get through which is all you ever do. The kids play, it’s great to see. I look at the diary with the black cover sitting on the table. Kung Fu household chores and the cat that needs grooming.
The No Name Diary 
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