Today I meandered through Regent’s Park listening to Gustav Holst’s The Perfect Fool and it gave the whole experience a rather wistful, haunting feel, as if I was in the final third of a low-budget arty film about something sad. The sky clouded over as I wandered and I felt as though my whole life had slipped away without my even noticing it. Perhaps it was just because earlier it had been sunny and I’d felt young and carefree.

Later still it rained on me heavily and I am now extremely damp.

In between the two events I met up with some actors and drank a lot. But there is nothing as sobering as the stopping service fom King’s Cross to Cambridge, especially when there is a replacement bus service from Royston.

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