Drifting on a Late Saturday Morning

An hour and a half before leaving for Stratford.

A fresh summers day, hot though. Took a walk down by the canal with Em to feed the ducks. The light in Worcester is different to that in Brighton. Clearer and sharper, and less suffused with that curious and often unpleasant holiday-town sickness which Brighton sometimes has. Everything here is more languid and overgrown. The sound of clocks ticking in the kitchen do not so much strike the hour as whisper it. From the window to my right, indistinct sounds drift on the barely-there breeze.

Three minutes have passed since I started writing this.