Monday, August 31

The weather has changed to Autumn with great determination. I finish my breakfast and go for the walk that has come to signify “going to work”.

I wear long trousers, a scarf and an autumn jacket. I listen to Bob Dylan explaining the cultural ramifications of the Kennedy assassination. Murder most foul, he suggests.

It has rained hard again in the night. I stop to look at the grass at the side of the path at several points. I photograph it as a study in greens.

I will think about an unusual nightmare that I woke up to. We had somehow got trapped in a holiday camp where you could listen to short wave radio from various points. We needed to pack but I could not remember which room we had taken, and the layout of the place made no sense to me.

Auo kept telling me that they would not let her out, and we would have to leave her there. The spare room in the hotel had become filled with sacks of gravel for which we had become responsible. I woke up feeling miserable.