Been on the road, on the railways, tarmac and over-head wires, criss-crossing over land, through the rain - it seems to have been pouring endlessly. Wet, wet, wet. We met friends in damp Spanish mountains, drank cosmopolitans and café con lêche.
People dodged puddles amongst the pollarded trees - that remind me of ink drops and midnight monsters (I am against over pruning).
I caught a train from South to North, passed a shaven-headed surfer scented with thirty unwashed nights; a muzzled dog licked my foot as a fat woman swigging beer gave up her seat to a pin-thin old lady saying, "You have to think of the others". Rain, rain on window panes.
After, I ran theatre workshops, moved and imagined, acted and breathed; made ephemeral monuments, something from nothing, acting leaves no trace. It rained. At home, unpacked, washed, wrote. Celebrated with dandelions.
Made a brioche that did not rise. Made a loaf of bread that did. Finally, now, the sun's come out. We're basking in the blue.