Lost for words

I salute my wordless compatriot for his whimsical and somehow wordy description of the daily disease I am also affected by. It is good to laugh at our ridiculous selves.

Anthony Wilson

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It is my turn to go out for a walk.

The book has slept late, and, not for the first time, is finding it hard to get ready for work. I am showered, dressed and breakfasted by the time I hear it shuffling to the bathroom.

I shout down the corridor, secretly hoping it won’t hear me. ‘I’m heading out for a walk. See you later.’

There is no sign of a reply.

Outside the breeze is brisk, the surface of the river now choppy. People are going about their business, mostly on bikes, studiously avoiding connection with each other. I see only one other pedestrian.

I mooch around aimlessly, taking the odd photograph, occasionally pausing at a shop window. I order coffee at a nearby cafe, one famed for its freshly-baked bread. It would be rude of me not to try some, I think.

As I pay to go…

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