This

This is where I am staying for the next couple of weeks. The view from the garden wall of this house. My father built a little platform in the corner of the seawall, for as long as I can remember it has felt essential to go and stand in that spot, survey the sea, whenever I return to the house.

It's been nearly two years since I last stood there..

It was as cold today as it looks, an icy wind. It's a mile, a short walk in pleasant weather to the main town. I wasn't feeling robust enough to brave the wind for the ritual walk the length of the high street, seeing what's changed, seeing which faces I remember, seeing who remembers me. I fancy I look different since I cut off my long hair - not different enough it seems.

I tried and failed to catch a bus into town twice. At the third attempt a taxi drew up at the bus stop. I jumped in out of the cold for the short hop to town, assuming I was incognito. When I went to pay, the driver was pure affronted, and amused. 'Oh I don't want any money. I just saw you standing and thought you could do with a lift.'

Over forty years ago I flirted with boys to the jukebox in his mother's cafe. It is strange, both touching and daunting, to return to the place that both shaped and holds a long memory of me. An idea of me. And I of it.

Here's to Gerry Drovandi. I remember him, why would I not expect him to remember me?