It is raining here in the past.
I hope the weather there in the future is better.
Reading Steven Hall's The Raw Shark Texts, which Vlatka kindly Amazoned in my direction. Getting frightned now (by the book, not by the gifts).
Vlatka described a guy outside her apartment building, waiting and taking a call on his cell, while his dog scratched round at the edge of an empty lot. When she walked past she heard this:
"What I'm saying to you is that you need a protagonist for this story. There needs to be someone that these things are actually going to happen TO."
Discussing this with Adrian and Hugo we're gripped by the thought of what the story this phone-guy is referring to might be like in its present, criticised form – an arrangement of things (incidents, scenes, events?) that somehow aren't happening to anyone at all? This could be a good book.
Round Hugo's in Shoreditch the overheard fare is a bit more gold-type chains, blurred tattoos and white knuckle. Bloke on the steps of the pub in a gleeful narration to his mates: "'Look, I says' to him, 'I'm sorry you CUNT…'"