Sunday morning, light rain, bells, birds, lights on all night in the church next door. "Vigil" I said to my Cate last night, me heading to bed and book (Wendy Cope, Family Values, newly purchased at the LRB bookstore; plus Molloy, brought from Paris, cover ringed with tea and coffee); her whisking egg whites for chocolate mousse for lunch at her friend's today in a sink-sized metal mixing bowl--the eggs, not the lunch.
"I love baking," she said, turning me one cheek and then the other to kiss, "maybe I should open a pastry shop, and keep your finger out of the chocolate please." "People are dying like flies," she said. "Vigil," I said, "like prayers all night. Not a wake." Though on Easter weekend it would be a wake. But she thinks the priest just forgot to turn the lights out. It's not the first time, she says.
Gossamer. "I dreamt a dream last night..."
Thames bottle glass. I want to go back. Mudlark: another word, I'd heard, but without having it in my fingertips, like the bottleglass in my pocket, pale blue, pale green, her pocket actually, she lent me her coat. Should have collected some pebbles of brick. But one pocket had a big hole.