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(quite late, sorry, life seems to have been busy but then I think of these words from Vita Sackville-West “It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by.  How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment?  For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone.  That is where the writer scores over his fellows:  he catches the changes of his mind on the hop”, and then Wordsworth “Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart”. So apologies. I will try to be better…)

When I think about the start of the week there is not much good to find – returning home to find a door kicked in, drawers open and papers fanned out on the floor with the greasy slip of someone else’s fingers. A phone call that makes me cry and sleep that is hard to find.

But then there are things that are good: friends’ voices, kind messages, laughing with Tom and his family on Brick Lane. The murals on the walls of the curry house are of tigers and hummingbirds, dusky mountains and flat lakes of silver water. His old familiar face makes me smile.

At Whitechapel Mission I talk to S, from Russia, who has lived on the street for a few years. We sit through automated telephone lines and a sea of questions but eventually we get a meeting with an accommodation officer and the job centre. I can remember the feel of his hand in mine, the smile on his face, the creases around his blue eyes.

It is good to see my Mum at the weekend and I hold her tight when we hug. On Sunday we walk through Hackney to Columbia Road Flower Market and I watch her face as she sees the stalls. On the street there are sunflowers, daffodils, forget-me-nots in gorgeous colourful splash. Stall holders shouting “two bunch of lilies for a fiver!” and their teenage sons (pierced ears, printed t-shirts) mirror them in an echo “…for a fiver!”
When the quick rain shower clears, on our backs we feel the sudden bright white heat of wet sunlight.

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