Wednesday. Titus has been over, brought three cucumbers. I tried to be polite about them, thanked him, even though if you ask me they taste of all the most disappointing parts of British life. He walked over to the window, turned this big Indian jug around, possessive like, stamping his authority on the space. I don’t care which way around the Indian jug goes. It’s not my Indian jug. Asked me how I was settling in. Great, I said, not totally fibbing. Refrained from complaining to him about the way if you’re cooking a pizza in the oven you need to shove it right to the back then turn it around halfway through and even then it will probably burn on the edges and be frozen solid in the middle. He told me to put a rod down the septic tank if it gave me any problems. ‘We are a tad feral around here, I’m afraid,’ he said. He’s all right, Titus is. Voice oozes everything he’s from. Not super posh, laid-back Devon posh, as if the act of talking itself is a little tiring, as if words are a chair he’s constantly pushing the reclining lever on. Heard that sound a lot here already. Reminders of my ingrained peasanthood everywhere. Bit alone but made some friends at the pub already. Maurice, a thatcher. Almost broke my fingers with his handshake. Saw Bob yesterday. First time in six years. Good to be close to him again. Grumpier than he used to be. Looks even more like a terrier. ‘Mind out for newts,’ he said, as I walked in. ‘What?’ I said. ‘They’re breeding out the back,’ he said. ‘They seem to still think there’s a pond here.’ Some people really own a room when they walk into it; Bob used to really rent a corner of that same room. Different now. Sense a new unwillingness in him to please. Listened to some records, a blast of stoner rock, proto-metal, some of our old touchstones. Didn’t smoke. Drank tea. First time I’ve known him to be single. A good thing, too. Loved himself a loud, bossy lady, Bob did. Don’t know if he still does. Always going straight from relationship to relationship with no time to take his clutter to the charity shop in between. Never the healthiest state of affairs. Big barrier to meeting someone on equal terms for him. Wouldn’t have told him, though. Say something like that to Bob and he wouldn’t express offence; he’d just go a bit silent then you wouldn’t see him for an epoch. Hard to believe he ever lived in or near a city. Kind of bloke who whispers to sick trees and makes them well again. Told him I was trying to learn the names of the flowers. ‘You?’ he said, disbelieving. ‘Have this,’ he said, handing me a book. ‘I’ve got two.’ ‘What’s this one on the cover?’ I said. ‘Snake’s head fritillary,’ he said. ‘The ones next to it are marsh marigold.’ Took the book and wandered around a bit afterwards in the sun, steep steps, a water spout two inches above the pavement, ‘NOT DRINKING WATER’. Good job they told me that because I was just about to get down on my back and clamp my lips around it. Ginnels and jitties behind cottages, covered in daisies. Not daisies. Fleabane. Just learned it. Ugly name for a nice plant. Pictured this place, 1968. Thought about its ghosts. RJ. Was this one a street he walked along? And did the Countenance Divine shine forth upon these clouded hills?