A blackbird, male, comes into view for a moment. It is in flight, making a tight low turn over the elecampane before disappearing from view, probably landing on the neighbour’s conservatory roof. It was a glimpse only that I had of the bird. It was silent, with some morning agenda unknown to me.

I’m itching. I have a swelling under my right eye. I will put lavender oil in my bath and lie there for a while. I have exercises to do, and I need to address my diet. I’ve started yoga again. This morning I stood on my yoga mat and practiced mountain pose for the length of time it might take a blackbird to appear and disappear in my window, when making a tight turn over the elecampane. Time enough to have the thought that this would be very good to do for an hour or two. Quickly followed by the thought ‘I think I’ll have a bath.’ My lodger was in the bathroom, so I came down here, greeted the dog, who had made herself a new cosy sleeping place between the long curtain and the filing cabinet, opened one of the doors to the garden, said a muted hello to the day, sat here, wrote my twelve digit number, and this.

There are double glass doors to the garden, French windows – I break off here for a brief conversation with Daniel the lodger, who is leaving for work – speaking of romantic poems and writing letters and how his girlfriend showed him a letter he had written a year and a half ago, and was he no longer inspired? – the words don’t quite show the exchange – simple, friendly, pleasant, and now he’s gone, and the dog is worrying fleas and cool air drifts in with the sound of the sparrows and the distant road.

French windows draw me to Mrs Dalloway at Bourton, I’ve taken the book from the shelf, ‘plunging into the open air.’

The blackbird is back, but less secretive, moving from one Alhambra pole to another, considering eating my yellow plums, perhaps. A female sparrow lands on the paving. My eye itches but cannot be itched. Another sparrow cleans his beak on the shed roof, making a tapping sound. I scratch a spot on my head, then my neck.

I don’t remember my past like Mrs Dalloway. But she is remembering the past from an absolute present, a present she entirely inhabits. I’m here now writing this, present to writing this, but in writing I am detaching myself. I could only be entirely present if I was not writing. Or I’m only present in the writing – not what has been written, but in the actual process, choosing letters, pressing keys.

The blackbird is muttering outside, I think it’s the ‘I’ve found some good food’ mutter – I hope it’s not my plums – and I am waiting. I was waiting yesterday. I am still waiting. Yesterday I was waiting for today, now I am waiting for this evening.

At a moment yesterday when I was not waiting I cut peppermint and it is hanging to dry by the bookshelf. I think there is a little left from last year in a jar in the kitchen. I will use it now to make tea to take to my lavender bath.