The other night I dreamt I was looking for pastries in a labyrinth of small shops, steam wafting out into tiny dark corridors from humid, dimly lit, intricately decorated interiors. Then I came upon a wee stall, more like a cubbyhole cut into a stone wall, with a closed door, light emitting above the gap at the top of the door. "Hello!" I shouted. No one answered. A giant of a man peered over the door, and a woman came out, disgruntled, cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She fished a slice of pineapple out of a can, dipped it in batter, and flung it into a vat of cooking oil. Then she turned to me and I realised she was a young Gillian Anderson.

It's been super busy this week, more than usual. Somehow between emails, meetings, and visitors, I submitted an Arts Council application for the same award I received a couple of years ago, which funded my previous project. Fingers crossed.

Yesterday I spotted a goldcrest at the castle and today I noticed snowdrops, white stars scattered across the priest's lawn.

<<