I woke up to what Byron calls perfect weather: another grey, overcast English day. I met Byron in the market for tea and then we sat on the wall in front of King’s, listening to the bells of Great St. Mary’s and watching hoards of tourists stream past Senate House.
We talked idly about what I should do as my “public risk” for the reading in November and he suggested I take volunteers from the audience to kiss (because I’ve slept with more people than I’ve kissed and symmetry is important to my obsessive mind). But that would involve fixing my lipstick in the middle of an event. Which would be annoying. I’ll have to come up with a better scheme.
Byron left for work and I wandered through the market, buying chorizo and olive oil from a man who is shutting down his stall and going home to Malaga. I stopped at the bread cart for a loaf of calamata, then at the olive stall for tapenade and pesto; the olive lady helpfully informed me that she will not be around next weekend so I bought extra.
Today was the first day I’ve made it to market while the organic vegetable people are still stocked up; it was thrilling to pick through bins of lettuce and cucumbers and kale before handing my coins over.