Time in lockdown is very strange—fluctuating, never steady.
Some days rush by, some weeks do—some days drag, some months, too.
Six years ago, these were—the internet told me so.
Giant puppets moving down the streets of Liverpool—slowly through crowds.
The sun was so hot that day—all the grass was dead and the air smelled of suncream.
Later, we ate Chinese food in the garden—and talked about Cilla Black.