Every time I woke last night (which was often), it was half past the hour. An odd coincidence, I thought. But in the morning, I discovered that the minute hand of my alarm clock had worked loose. It swung limply, like an anesthetized limb, at base of the clock face. I put my feet on the bedroom floor at 7.30 am. (It was actually 7.00 am.)
9.00 am. I made a trip to the Farmers’ Market to buy eggs and a cornish pasty (one, with ample crusty pastry, which could feed a family of six), and my monthly guitar journal. One property on Northgate Terrace bears a typographic rendering of the name in relief, finished with a respectable and determinate full stop. In the nineteenth century, many chapels had their titles written upon their facade in this manner:
12.00 pm. Off to School to prepare for the Visiting Day. There was a significant turnout. I wanted to see how many retweets and favourites my tweets would attract. What are people looking for in a tweet? The outcome was more than favourable. My afternoon in tweets:
5.00 pm. Time to close the shop.