‘Indeed. Or eleven days,’ he said, putting the book back in his pocket. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take this back to the station with me. I have a feeling this could be important.’

They left. I reached for the custard creams, distractedly.

Thursday October 25th

I was only halfway through This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave but I strode to book group with the unshakeable confidence of a man who knows when a book is unfinishable.

I arrived to find everyone had finished it except me. More than that, they were able to talk about it for three hours. I sat on the fringe of the group, playing with my pistachios, retreating into my shell. Occasional phrases penetrated my outer layer: ‘lyrically fecund’, ‘difficult but enriching’, ‘timeless and yet so now’.

My silence hadn’t gone unnoticed and, when the evening had finished, we all knew it was over for me. ‘Bye, Brian,’ one of them said, ‘hope to see you around some time. Oh, you’ve dropped something.’

I stooped to pick up the postcard that had fallen out of my book, inserted it back between its pages, then walked out of the door and away from book group for the very last time.

Friday October 26th

Pumpkin

he carried a candle for her

and so she would call him

‘pumpkin’

that his head was huge,

fleshy and orange

were further contributory

factors

On my way back from getting some new materials for the shed, I stood back to admire the sight next door. Mrs McNulty’s front garden explodes with pumpkins at this time of year (not a euphemism). The jagged, jarring noise of her wood-sawing temporarily makes way for the restrained and civilised muffle of her pumpkin-carving. She loves Halloween and makes a big effort with jack o’ lanterns, fake cobwebs, skeletons and (what is presumably) fake blood on her driveway.

I always feel a little sorry for her, though. She never gets any trick-or-treaters; parents have long memories and tell their children to give her house a wide berth at Halloween, particularly after what happened to poor Susan Watkins in 2007.

Saturday October 27th

Sangue Sulle Tracce

[translated from the Italian]

Pepe lies dying in the arms of Carlotta by the side of the running track. Enzo’s javelin is embedded deep within his chest. Pepe’s vaulting pole lies forgotten on the ground. The 3000m steeplechase continues around them.

Also, I am bleeding profusely

so please stay for a while

and hold me, my pretty heptathlete!

Be mindful of the javelin

that protrudes from the very heart of me.

How it pierces me so!

Careful! There is blood on your running vest!

You may find yourself disqualified!

The judges are harsh here.

And now for one final time

I must launch myself into the sky.

Oh, do not cry, my little athlete.

I hear them calling you.

It is time for your shot put.

Leave me now and let me jump.