In 2019 I had the flu. One of those lingering, rolling bouts that seem to be over then return to keep you hovering in a vaguely feverish almost pleasurable state, taking too much decongestant so your nose hurts and your eyes get prickly and dry…


When the final curtain falls, or the lights go dark, it’s over. 

The play is done; the actors take their calls, leave the stage and scramble to change out of costume. All that’s left for the audience is a confused and fading memory. 


My garden. Let’s define terms; ‘garden’ can be misleading, can lead to unrealistic expectations—and nobody likes that.

So. What we’re talking about here is what’s outside the house; a biggish amount of rock-filled ground hacked from surrounding woodlands…


Scene: A large bright room in a Manhattan apartment. Jimmy is arranging stacks of staff paper: Arnie sits at the piano, watching. 

ARNIE: (prompting) Sam wants you to do something.

JIMMY: If he’s helpless.


JIMMY: Arnie. Helpless.


Likely she’d have denied it but I remember—if I can trust myself—Saturday evenings, like it was an event, my mother would sit down with the dog and a box of Black Magic chocolates to watch the telly. She spent a lot of Saturday evenings alone. My father was a jazz musician…

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