It’s nearly my birthday. I stroll around an enormous shop. My friend Rebecca wants to buy me a huge, brown, sheepskin jacket. I don’t really like the colour, and feel a bit like Henry VIII wearing it. I explain that it feels as if a king has died on his throne, and I am sat on it wearing his corpse as a coat. Eventually someone will split me open and use me as a coat, I think.
We roam around. I find a music section. I find a souped up Kay E-100, in white, like my first guitar but better. My friend finds me. I explain about the jacket. We leave it behind.
Outside is a street market. At the end of one stall is a pyramid of books, they are cloth bound and reminiscent of 1970’s Curved Air album cover design. They are a series on The Matter of Reality. £40. I can’t justify buying so many books I don’t have time to read. Like all of these kinds of books, it claims to have all the answers. I prefer to read ebooks these days, they can be easily updated by the author when new information or knowledge comes to light.
I decide to take a photo so I can google the author later.
As I focus a child slides the label out of shot. His parents call him cheeky. I offer to call him an ambulance if he does it again.
We wander into green fields, and pastures new.