Here on this sleeper train

I miss winter. I want to go on the kind of walk where your toes are freezing inside your shoes and the wind buffs your cheeks until they are rosy red.

I've been spending the days swimming in the sea, walking along beaten tracks, drinking proper ginger beer outside the pub and lying on my bed reading books about ships with the window open. It's nice to do nothing much.

This morning, while the sun was out but the air was still cool and fresh, my house mate put three big suitcases into the back of a taxi. He was wearing a crisp shirt and charcoal trousers and asked the driver to take him to the station. He is moving his life to London, case by case, and he is not afraid.

Doesn't that just make you want to laugh and cry at the same time? I think I've spent too much time out in the sun.

I got a plane to New York. I road the subway a lot and looked out for butterflies. I went into a shop that had food imported from all over the world. My friend pointed to some jam and said 'they make that down the road from me. Literally 15 minutes down the road.' We went to a diner to see if they'd refill our coffee cups. The bus driver said 'My name's Raymond. Everybody loves Raymond right?' There were ducks in the lake at central park but I still can't tell Holden Caulfield where they go in the winter. The tops of the buildings rose into the clouds. The traffic lights and the cabs were just as yellow as in the movies. I went up the empire state building and I didn't take a single picture. Not one.

People often walk down this hill to the station. The wheels of their suitcases rumble over the rough tarmac. They are travelling. Wrapped up in hats and coats and gloves, heads down against the misty rain. As soon as they stepped out of their doors, and bumped their suitcase over front steps, they left this town. They were part of somewhere else before they reached the station, another door with a warm room and a light behind it.

They will spend their day waiting in the drizzle for trains that roar and splutter and beep beep beep. Pulling a suitcase up steps and into racks and off of racks.

And I will stay in this little seaside town. Buy fruit juice and the weekend paper.

When I open my wardrobe I see a suitcase sitting on the bottom shelf. Tucked in snugly and waiting.

This isn't the house that jack built. I don't know who built these houses. There's a man painting the house next door. Sometimes you hear him talking to the postman. It's kind of odd because he's on a ladder and it sounds like he's talking right outside your first floor window. The postman's a nice guy. He helped someone move their car today. His red post bag slumped against the wall and there he is in the middle of the street pushing a battered red ford up the road. It doesn't really matter that we don't get our post till 4pm.

In infant school there was a boy in my class who found a fire in his kitchen and called 999. They made him stand at the front of assembly to tell us about it. He started with 'I was just going into the kitchen to get a yoghurt...' And that's the only bit I remember. The yoghurt. I just imagine him walking down the stairs thinking about this yoghurt he's going to eat, thinking 'I'll just go and get a yoghurt' and then turning the handle of the kitchen door and seeing a fire instead. Maybe it's because we never had yoghurts at home. It just seemed so odd.

Recently I have:

Stayed in a building with a busted red door, concrete steps and a broken light.
Taken a train over a long red bridge with the yellow sunlight melting into the water.
Waited at Waterloo.
Read a black biro scrawl that ended with 'all the best'.
Stepped over a stile while blackberry picking.
Turned on the lights in an empty office.
Cycled in the rain.
Drizzled melted chocolate over a pie topped with cream.
Fallen asleep while listening to strangers laugh over coffee and dessert.
Bought a first class stamp.
Scratched my arm on a filing cabinet.

Sometimes it's nice to be really busy in the week, and then on Sunday to lie in bed with the curtains open a little bit so you can see the trees and the rain outside and to read The Catcher in the Rye.

I watched a wedding on Saturday, from the doorway of an art gallery. The groom had an orange flower in his suit and the bride had one in her hair. There was a man playing the piano, reading music off crisp cream sheets. After the wedding finished they took all the chairs away and there was just the vase of orange flowers left standing on the side. Somebody said they look a bit tatty now.

But every one in the wedding had already gone. They had all walked across the park with the brides dress just skimming along the grass.

Say you know, I meant to go downstairs and get myself a cup of coffee about half an hour ago but I've just been sat here listening to this song. Just been listening to it over and over on repeat. I really like that bit at the end, that bit where it goes do do do DO. Do you know the bit I mean? Well, never mind. Listen, I can't remember what I called you up for.

In my dream I met a fascinating man with shocking hair, he had two black dogs and I think I shook his hand.

It felt a bit like autumn the other day, cool and earthy. My bicycle tires crackled over the twigs and leaves. I wonder what happened to summer this year? Seems like it was over in may.

Put you coat over the back of that chair, I'll make you a cup of tea.

I'm back in the city. No rolling hills or little boats or Sunday morning bells. In town the streets were full of people and they were all in a rush. I hope they were going someplace important.

I met an old friend, he said So how've you been?