Mad Hatters

If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?

I crawl up to the attic at dawn, leaving a handful - the Scottish crew - the only survivors. I encounter the last dregs on the way to the bathroom. Ang and Leila are finding toothbrushing an unexpected challenge. Mary is resting, uncomfortably, on the stairs.

The morning brings more sun and the heat begins to build in the attic. I rescue some of the burrito ingredients and serve refried pulled pork for brunch. A rug and radio in the shade at the bottom of the garden beckon - Billie Jean King on Desert Island Discs.

We drift home, in various directions. I leave a shrinking group after a hurried tea and cake session. The train deposits me at Waverley. A bus whisks me to Dolphinton. Bill brews me a cup of tea and deposits me back home. He’s now driving a Peugeot 107, which is a far cry from the Beemer, but a lot easier on the fuel pump.