February 14, 2009
A guest-house in Stratford Upon-Avon after an entirely sleepless night. A difficult night of explanation and justification; anger and tears. Bitterly cold – reminiscent of Venice almost exactly a year ago – walking for hours and never warming my body or hands. Sitting on a bench by the river staring out over at Shakespeare’s grave in silence, watching couples walking dogs through mud and tourists in jackets with maps. Restaurants fully booked for that Valentine’s Day meal – an irony not lost on either – leaves us sitting in an old favourite of ours. It’s still far too close to feel anything like reality.