This morning the fog showed up spiders' signatures, laced on gate posts and stretching between bushes. Intricate patterns dunked in ice sugar.

One of the mothers at Pest n.2's school moves out of her marital home today. We all offered to help; before you could say 'Fuck off, Pickfords', she got half a dozen women, a pick-up, three station wagons and a trailer. Oh, and a useless Alfa Romeo car with no boot to speak of.

I climbed on the back of the pick-up and stacked up the chairs. On their feet, and one of top of the other.

'Lu, you don't do sensible, do you?'

No, I suppose I do not. But I will spend the rest of my day moving a woman's life from one house to another, and try to shrug off the awful apathy which has been paralysing me.