Notes

You write notes to yourself and pretend they are to your future self, so that you won't make the same mistakes again and can learn, actually learn, from the past. Really though, you hope that the time when you re-read the notes is just before you embark on a little bit of time travel and then maybe you won't even make those mistakes in the first place.

Kingsgate, Kent

I collected freshly fallen conkers from the edge of the churchyard. During my childhood, the horse chestnut tree sat next to a dark building that was part of the builders' yard, but now the tree has a protection order. It's still growing, but in someone's back yard. It's still the tree I think about if I think about conkers.

I drove my mum's car, on the roads that featured always in my dreams, when I was driving. The roads I first drove on, I suppose, but in the dreams, I drive only uphill, away from the village.

The rainbow was faint and the jet trails fell from the sky like a feather.

At Kingsgate, I clambered down through a small chalk ravine to the beach and then found caves churned out of the rocks, glistening white. Castles loitered at the tops of the hills, but it was the archway that was the most impressive sight.

I made plum pudding and now, thinking about it, I should have served it on manhole covers, like food is served in Reasons To Live. My dad is still pulverising the garden, searching for drains.