My body clock is fairly smashed, and most days I’m unable to tell whether it’s a quarter to Christmas, or ten past the-time-you-need-to-leave-for-school-pick-up. But I’ve got business, exciting business, in Bristol, and through the miracle of an unhospitalised parent and a cooperative J, I’ve headed here a night early. On the drive, I keep instinctively turning around to check on the baby. I’m not used to being alone.
I check into my hotel (is there a more magical phrase in the English language?) and head out for coffee. Bristol is beautiful. In the warm November early evening, the city seems to be full of bright creatures heading somewhere worth waiting for. I eat alone - my god, I’d forgotten how much I love doing that - and afterwards, with my takeout coffee, I stand at the ice rink, watching the same ten people circle round and around. The rink sounds like plastic but grates up like ice, and our line of bystanders laughs along with the skater when he takes a dramatic, flailing tumble. It’s been a long time since I could just think these lazy, pretentious thoughts; a slow swim in the world of beautiful things.