No Sparks, No Stars, No Samovars.

I was sitting eating my sandwich in Uttoxeter High Street today watching the shabby throng of mundane humanity ply their little paths, and being acutely aware of how alien they all seemed. There wasn’t a single one of them who piqued my interest sufficient to want to introduce myself. No presence, you see. I need to perceive presence in a person if I’m to have my interest piqued. About the only person I see frequently in Uttoxeter who has a noteworthy presence is a woman who works in one of the charity shops, and she wasn’t there today.

And then it occurred to me that the three days I spent in hospital last week were very different. I was chatting merrily to all and sundry there. I wondered whether the people who frequent the Royal Derby Hospital are so different than those who walk up and down Uttoxeter High Street, or whether I was simply in a different mood. I expect it was the latter.

This week has been unremarkable so far, which is why there’s been nothing much to write about on the blog. I’ve been devoid of both humour and imagination, there’s been little to rant about in the news, circumstances have offered nothing to set my typing fingers itching, and Natalia Tsarikova hasn’t invited me to St Petersburg for tea.

But I just remembered something. I did see Lucy walk past the coffee shop in Ashbourne yesterday. Lucy has presence, but she walked past without glancing in my direction so my hopeful wave went unreciprocated. It’s been that sort of week so far.

I wonder whether the llama is missing me. I wonder whether anybody is missing me. I wonder whether I want to be missed. This is getting complicated.