12:44am Easter Day

A bottle of mead that Al and Claire bought me for my birthday. Nearly finished now, and I'm sat in my freezing room (out of gas) listening to Death In June's Snow Bunker Tapes, and it feels like winter, like Christmas, like those days after Christmas in 1981 - before 1982. It was that pub we went to yesterday in Hastings. I can't remember the name, but they had a wood fire, and that wood fire was the same smell as Nan and Grandad Stone's house, where we spent the post Christmas week of 1981. I remember the cold of that house, utterly bone chilling and oddly refreshing. A pure cold. Felt like you were out in the middle of the wilds.You were though. Deep Worcestershire wilds. If I'm going to write this, I've got to pay attention to my spelling. Tood runk (hahaha) for my spelling to come naturally tonight. Got to pay attention.
More mead.
It tastes of honey.
Water. I've got a pint of water too.
Eyesight creased with too many roads. With too many memories of roads. Most of them leading upwards, lit by cold lamps. Black nights and secret houses. Dark gardens. Oh, it's London Road in Worcester again. In these memory shift London Road is empty (too late at night) but 136 London Road, where I lived (1997 - 1999) is also empty. Dark rooms, and clattering floorboards. Plague of silence. Plague of too much space, too many storeys stretched out.
There are gaps in my memory.
I remember our second flat in Malta (1976) and I can trace the front room, the long corridor that was the hallway, the kitchen (food frying on a square frying pan), and the path out in the front door. I can't remember the room where I slept, presumably shared with my sister.
I remember even less our first flat in Malta. Only that it had no windows. Which is obviously not true but that's how I remember it anyway.