Friday, 1 June 2018


At home in the kitchen of the old Largs house. Am confused, trying to empty the washing machine but not sure if I'm taking the washing - several bundled duvet and pillow covers - from the machine or the neighbouring oven, which if not on, is definitely warm. This bemused thought and mix of images crowds my mind as I heave the damp fabrics into my arms. Conscious of my mother hovering about, talking, and a sense that my younger brother is also present, angry and plotting to hit me. Now in the back garden. Low, rendered garage to my right/the west and a central square lawn with a clothesline running along the east side. I sling the washing onto the line in a damp, heavy heap, causing the line to stretch under the weight. Will it rain? Is it spitting already? My younger brother, gangly and naked, with his hair pulled back in a tight bun, is stalking the flower beds to my left. I assume, though he pays me little attention, that he's planning to attack me or make a grab for the washing. Again wondering if it will rain - heavy knit of clouds to the east/the hills and gathering to the west too (though there's a vague upside down triangle of bright blue sky dead ahead). In the sky above the garage a small sort of flying submarine - somewhere between Nite Owl's ship and an underwater ski from 007's Thunderball - is visible against the cloud, a light shining on its right side. It drifts silently down into the garden and lands. The sky is darkening further-

Nicky Campbell is the pilot and he gets out and explains that he only has 3 minutes of flight at a time before he has to land (presumably to recharge). We chat about how he must be hopping from garden to garden sussing out people for interviews for ITV. No, it's BBC! Now the cloud/fog is really rolling in in a thick blanket. It's suddenly as if there's a low ceiling formed of a grill or perforated surface over the entire garden and Nicky and I watch with apprehension as the fog filters through to where we are. To the touch you can tear the seeping fog as if it is cotton wool - I surmise that this is due to it mixing with age-old dust in the perforations. I ask Nicky if he wants to come into the house until this (creepy) phenomena has passed. We go in the back door and through the kitchen on through into the living room to join the family. I peek out the front curtains and it is dark, the front lawn/flower beds covered in a light dusting of snow, the scene faintly lit by the streetlights. I say to everyone that it looks okay out front and-

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