Mr Fox

Mary Foxe came by the other day – the last person on earth I was expecting to see. I’d have tidied up if I’d known she was coming. I’d have combed my hair, I’d have shaved. At least I was wearing a suit; I strive for a sense of professionalism. I was sitting in my study, writing badly, just making words on the page, waiting for something good to come through, some sentence I could keep. It was taking longer that day than it usually did, but I didn’t mind. The windows were open. I was sort of listening to something by Glazunov; there’s a symphony of his you can’t listen to with the windows closed, you just can’t. Well I guess you could, but you’d get agitated and run at the walls. Maybe that’s just me.