Arriving at the bank for my meeting I smiled when a slightly untidy man with a goatee shook my hand. They remember me, I thought. They think he might understand.
“Money’s not exactly real anyway” he said, surprisingly. “At least you get to do what you love to do”
“And what do YOU love to do?” I asked. “You have musicians hands…”
“Art…. and I write.”
In between our off-the-record discussions, he read me Terms and Conditions and we signed forms. He was left-handed too.
Much later, I look up at the sharp moon, three-quarters full against an ink dark sky. The air is crisp, but not cold, and some cigar smoke wafts my way as I walk home along the quiet roads past tired-looking decorations.
It is 12th night.
I got distracted you see - by pretty notebooks, good pens and expensive desk diaries.
I fell in love with books again, beckoning me with their arty covers and the feel of their fresh new pages. I lingered by the smell of strong coffee and for once I didn’t hurry along these familiar, shabby, ancient streets.
I like my little pilgrimage into town the first week of January. I need to buckle-down, but something about this brand new year is making me a tad excitable.