GPS

My sickness is boring even to me, so I won't go on.  Suffice to say back to the doctor's tomorrow with dodgy restricted airways; back to the physio on Wednesday with dodgy back and wrist; back to normal health at some point soon, hopefully.

Next week I start giving up the vast tiled emptiness to the welcome invasion of furniture.  A sofabed, in the first instance.  I'm sure this will breed other items.  Not too many, as I don't want to lose notional dancing space.  Even if the dancing is notional, you need dancing space.  I had always promised myself, and probably you, that when finally I settled there would be a reprise of the dressing-gown groove to Bowie's "Let's Dance", as there was nearly thirty years ago, in a flea-ridden sitting room in Hammersmith when first I left home.

Only now I find myself listening to his new single on repeat instead.  It is beautiful and mournful.  We are all thirty years older, and his anxious mask-face in the video reflects all of our fragility and mortality. 

I want to say all sorts of profound things but cannot think of them.  Leaving home at 21 is an explosion of freedom and surreality.  Parties and fear and never having money.  Leaving home at 50 is a sort of quiet, industrious burrowing towards a better place.  That's where we are now.