In the Central, with memories. We sat about there. The seat was ripped. The gents was lacking a door. The jukebox was over there, far end. You always said you meant to play Magic Bus but you put on I Want To Know What Love Is. I already knew.

None of that’s here now. The memories are but none of the rest, or you. I’m not sad. I’m just sad.

And then Dakota; plays. You and I. And I think how many songs have you missed. I’m still not sad, honest.

A Round Number

Today I am forty. It reads as a significant number but only because it’s got a zero in the base we are used to thinking in. I may as well be 28b16 if we counted in hexadecimal, or 50b8 in octal or even 101000b2 binary (though those last two are also round—how about 34b12 in base 12?). The point is that it’s not actually a special point; just another trip around the star.

Yet it feels like it needs marking. This is of course the age Jan never reached, though I’ve been older than she will ever be for a month or more. It is the age that in youth seems such a long time off, a point that can never be reached. Yet it is reached, while not looking. And that not looking is important; life is not about round numbers, it is the things that happen while not staring at the time. So lets forget that its a silly number and get drunk instead!