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entry 69 - 14th March 02
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sunburnt

I've just got back, totally sunburnt, from an excellent day on the beach with Angela. I'd almost forgotten how much fun she could be. The fact that Tim-tom was safely tucked away in Norwich all day probably helped her come out of her shell. It certainly put me at ease, too.

She had her painting stuff with her, her easel and whatnot. She sat on her stool and daubed away while I lay next to her, on the pebbles, looking at the sky, listening to the slight whistle in her speech which came from a chipped front tooth. (Tim-Tom didn't do it, incidentally... she got it from falling off a moped when she was 14).

We did the whole nostalgia bit, reminiscing about the time we worked in a mental hospital in Surrey, teaching bookbinding skills to the inmates. That was when we had our affair. She wondered if I remembered our aborted picnic on the south downs. How could I forget it? I'd somehow chosen the only spot in the entire area that was given over to grouse shooting. We were sprawled on a big blue blanket with the authentic wicker picnic basket open in front of us when the gunshots started going off. I'd told her not to worry about them - that they sounded quite distant. Then they stopped, so we settled again. Angela set the plastic plates down and was about to get the salad out when suddenly a massive headless pigeon fell from the sky and landed with a muffled thud in the centre of the picnic basket.

She didn't bat an eyelid. She just held the plastic knife and fork out in her hands, looked me right in the eye, and said: "Breast or leg?"

Then there was the time she drove her car into the sea. God knows how she managed to do that.

And the time we did some acid and she got lost inside Selfridges for four hours.

We didn't mention Tim-tom once during the whole day.


Duncan

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