ellenscult | Perfection in a handful of sand...

I went to writing group tonight. I have word porn: this isn't just Word Porn, this is Half Price Word Porn. My first Concise Oxford dictionary in 16 years; my first since I came to York to read English Literature. I think I paid less for this dictionary than I did that one. Group was good. Good feedback, good company. The Hussar is open again under new management; the wine glasses are a thing of beauty to behold and the ladies loo seats are a choice of zebra striped or Union Flag: both better than beige plastic and cigarette burn chic.

Cycling back was, as always, a war between past and present. The sodium lights and London Plane trees tug me back to the 1920s, even though the poplars have all been taken down. There's no more whispering as I head home along 5th Avenue. But the moon sailing up above, planet attendant, more than made up for the two youths on one bicycle in the shadows on the opposite pavement and the menace of a 'Hey you!' as I noticed them, noted them, and sped up.

On nights like tonight I am Toreador, moonstruck, my critical functions taken out by the beauty of trees, streetlamps, the moon. At least I'm not driving at sunset.