Flora Prissypants still refusing to pay me back for the drain company’s bill. I am seeking legal advice. I am not feeling well. Last night I went to bed with a band of tingling, slightly burning pain stretching around from my navel to my lower back. I am sure it is nothing. There is usually something and usually it doesn’t last long and becomes nothing. That’s what it’s like, having a body. Or at least having a body after a certain, not particularly old, age. Of course, before that there’s a period that might convince you that having a body can mean going for long stretches of time where there’s nothing much wrong at all, but that’s in fact a very brief period, in the grand arrangement of life. ‘You look tired,’ said Kath, when she arrived to relieve me of my shift. ‘Are you OK?’ This means absolutely nothing, since approximately four times out of every nine she sees me, Kath, whom I jobshare with, says to me, ‘You look tired. Are you OK?’ In part to spite her, I took advantage of the beautiful late afternoon weather, nipped home to get my bathing suit, and drove to the beach, then let myself float on the water, watching skeins of geese fly above me towards France as the most golden of suns dropped its blessing on the hills. I did not feel tired, and was OK. Perhaps it was not the most sensible course of action, and I have started to feel a bit peculiar since then, but I have an enormous faith in the healing power of salt water and fear we might not get a day this perfect and unseasonably warm for a long time. I did text Reka and ask her if she wanted to join me but she said she had another date. I heard her come in, obviously not alone, at around twelve, then could hear her playing her guitar and singing – the melody seemed familiar, and I realised it was the Hungarian record she had shown me, the one by the American singer, albeit a much softer rendition of the song than his. The builders are coming soon to sort the wall and I shall be extremely glad to have my own bed again.