Pet Rescue

L has a friend who claims his cat saved his life last week, after he woke to the sound of claws tearing strips off his bedroom door in the middle of the night. Upon opening the door and balking on the gas fumes that had filled the rest of the house, he grabbed the cat - and the dog - and all three escaped to safety. L asked in half-seriousness whether friend had rewarded the cat for its loyalty.

'Yeah' came the earnest, flat-vowelled reply. 'I chucked out all me Iams and cooked it salmon'.

Brioche

M. brought this thing back from Spain. It's like a huge wheel of brioche, but it's laced with some sort of fig paste and it's rank. Don't get me wrong I am more than partial to a good fig roll, and figs in general, when the time is right. But this just doesn't work. So it's been rammed upright in its hexagonal box between the toaster and the bread bin, and no-one's touching it. No-one'll throw it out either because it was a gift. And the box is too big and awkward to cram into the bin. It'll stay there forever. Pariah Brioche.

The Old Village

Well I couldn't tell you where January went. Or December, for that matter. But suddenly it's five in the afternoon and not dark anymore and the mound has all but settled. There are daffodil shoots in the garden and a new phase of missing begins to take shape.

There is still a flat cap on a hook in the kitchen. There are shoes. And there is still an office chair keeping watch at the end of the bed. Nobody uses the back door anymore, and, in the driveway, too close to the wall on the passenger side, there is a gold Rover 25.

There has been no dream yet. Lots of people have said there will be a dream.

Baby steps. Slowly does it.

Cups and Saucers

'Ohhhh aye- no show without punch' said G, dry and wicked to the last, sipping Coke from a squat beige mug with an orange flower pattern.

For years The Emergency Tea Set, confined to the cupboard with the narrow door and only ever to be used by family, the orange flower pattern mugs have come into their own in the past six months. Teacup-shaped but more robust, they are Keep Calm and Carry On and Father Ted combined: pretty and uniform for chats in the living room; saucer-free and portable for family members on the beat around the house. Fine grey spirals have been stirred out of the paint on the bottom of almost every one, and these days they're seldom in the cupboard. They live on the drying rack and the window sill and the coffee table, and every day there's an amnesty and someone washes them all and then the kettle boils and they're dispatched all over again.

Lumpy Tonsills

For the third time since May, it feels like there is a mulberry bush lodged at the back of my throat.

I have nearly killed myself several times this week by slipping on wet leaves, which means that autumn is truly here, so on Sunday I bought some new headphones, plugged myself into Florence+the Machine and went for a Big Reflective Walk.

2010 will be a Crunch Year. 2006 was the last one, and the one before that was 2004. The run-up to each Crunch Year is marked by a Big Reflective Walk, usually in early autumn before the stabby rain arrives, before it gets cold cold.

In October 2003 I was probably with L, midweek, and we walked down the cycle track to the marina, over the iron bridge with the sculpture of the man fishing. It smelled like wild garlic, and I had History homework to do and was doing my best to forget about it. We had shepherd's pie for tea, and I got the number 11 home at about half six, the only passenger all the way to the station. The sun was low over the Knavesmire and there was a blue mist and the smell of sugar beet. School, on a hill at the far end, was all shut up, no cars in the car-park, and I thought how weirdly unfamiliar it looks when there's no-one there. I got home at dusk and the house was roasting inside, and I did my homework the following morning at break.

In early November 2005 it was a Sunday, so I got the number 6 halfway home from J's house in Acomb, and walked the rest of the way in my new red coat, carrying my djembe. We'd just written what is still the best song we ever wrote, and it was on a loud and relentless loop in my head. I had to walk down Pennyghent Ave, the longest street anywhere in the world, ever: traditional semi after traditional semi, for half a mile in a straight line, and that afternoon I got from top to bottom in five minutes without noticing. I took out some yellow paper when I got home, and wrote on Edward II for an hour with a stopwatch. I ate lentil soup and watched the Antiques Roadshow, and was in bed by eleven.

This week, I walked down East Sands to Albany and back. The tide was out, the water was all opalescent calm, and I thought about what's coming. I felt that quiet resolution thing, and braced myself in the chill. It's going to be a big year.

They're playing Teardrop in The Westport

Thursday 24th September. Watched C. fall out of his front door on North Street, blue t-shirt twisted, fumbling with sunglasses, offended by the cheerful sunshine, desperate to conceal the pinkeye. Freshers' week has begun in earnest.

Now, to business, with an Irn Bru and an express lunch.

The Pink Umbrella

Thursday 3rd September. Rush hour, rain, fifteen minutes to catch the train, and the lights are on red next to the bus stop at the Theatre Royal. Atmosphere in the car: somewhat tense. A woman in cream, chubby, with a pink umbrella, is running into a headwind to catch the number 1. Will she make it? Will she not? Tough call- number 1 is indicating to pull out, but there's nowhere for it to go; it's suspended at that awkward angle, half-in, half-out of the bay, and can't go any further until the lights change.

Woman-in-cream thinks it's in the bag. She's slowing down, reaching into her coat to retrieve her purse, and in doing so she makes the fatal mistake of lowering her pink umbrella and loosening her grip on the handle. This coincides with a particularly lively gust of wet north wind, and all at once the pink umbrella is cleaved in two, the outstretched canopy wafting away over two rows of stationary traffic.

Woman-in-cream doesn't get it at first. She notices a sudden weight has been lifted from her right arm, and then, casting about for an explanation, sees a nylon hexagon dancing across steaming bonnets out of the corner of her eye. The penny drops, and a dilemma presents itself: to traverse the grid of steaming bonnets and bring her pink umbrella back in line, or to let it go and buy another one at lunch. The lights have changed, the number 1 has pulled away, and it is quite apparent that the fuchsia menace terrorising cyclists across the road belongs to her- she's still holding the handle.

The pink umbrella has alighted under the front wheel of a black Audi, the driver of which doesn't know what to do with himself. The canopy is jammed open, the fabric ruched and torn in places, revealing the tips of a few naughty spokes.

Will she retrieve it? Will she not? We'll never know; we drove away.