This is my wife’s ticket for the Trade Centre, from when she went to the top of one of the twin towers just six days before the terrorist attack.
It’s like playing Russian roulette with the calendar.
Remembering all of those who were there that awful day.
I found my Mum’s lower set of false teeth on the floor in the back of my wife’s car, and as she lives next door to us I sent my son to post them through her letter box.
At least I think that they are hers. I can just see her in the morning:
“Guess what the postman brought?”
Bananarama are back.
Keep singing over the weekend. The old ones are the best.
See you on the flip side.
Crossing the Lancashire-Yorkshire border
when I leave the station
it’s the familiarity that drapes
a warm cloak around my shoulders
against the grey September chill.