I have these unlinked thoughts on this day when the BBC is due to re-broadcast the Magical mystery Tour I watched with such adoring fascination 45 years ago.
These thought-dream ideas are so evanescent, they are the flames burning off the edges of other flames. I had it then, 10 minutes back, now it has gone.
The cellar-bound, the basement man. An old man with his books. Not his books, their books, and upstairs the fragrant Kensington folk, the less fragrant Portobello men with their bad teeth, their antique-dealer shrugs, their nicotine skin.
Above all, E. She could've been that skinhead girl back in 1968 with high-waisted blue jeans with big turn-ups (big as turnips and just as white) above the dm boot top, the braces and the rusty buzz cut, the blank eyed glare as she dodged between the gorilla-male skins around bethnal green, spitting venom at the little suburban hippies making their way to victoria park for some ill-advised peace and poetry event.
Now she's 70-ish, makes tea, her late hub was a printer at new printing house square, lost job when murdoch moved them, was a wapping picket, died later, sons are taxi-drivers, grand-daughter is already doing the knowledge.
You get the score. She's a character out of the screenplay I never wrote for Bridget in 1989. A true rough diamond geezer-essa, a riot-grrll 50 years ahead of her time.
Then there's D, a barmaid type, must've been so pretty once, now - as so often with these big beautiful blousy blonde types, she's widened out and hardened, she's becoming furniture, a bow leg at each corner to support the substantial corpus.
Of any interest or not, none of this was what I wanted to write tonight. I might instead write a love poem to Asda - its three for £10 wine deals keep me afloat.
Spinning happily at thirty-three-and-a-third revolutions per minute, not wanting to stop
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