a st andrews breakfast – two cups of coffee and two marlboro lights, looking at 9am as it trails warm pools in its cloak across the valley opposite. brecon has never looked so pretty as regina sings, and sings and sings, daffs dancing all around me like teenagers at a concert waving unsteady lighter flames. i am in hiding, on holiday from life as we know it – making shows of trading blows, just hoping no one knows. wave to postman – a ludicrous parochial pleasantville truman show wave. i’ve died and gone to cliché. this is the antithesis to mr bergamot strange and mister beasley toast jr. this is the place where time comes before its next posting. no rainbows in the sky – no rain – so let’s have another cup of coffee, and let’s have another marlboro light. duty free, don’t you know. i see my life in a grey non-polyester hoodie – all grainy in sepia like a sunday morning duvet, snuggling caricatures of everything once ridiculous, trading absurdities for the trite. even johnny rockefeller is looking for a silver lining.

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