My fountain diary entry: "not very special but I am here.
Pigeon in a plane tree."
And so I blithely write off an entire village. The millennia of births, deaths, loves and lusts, dreams and disappointments skimmed over using as much ink as would cover a lentil. I should be ashamed of myself and in part, I am. We all think our little moment on stage should steal the spotlight and send the review columnists into a fever. But the fact is we are often forgotten as soon as the curtain falls.
However, I now realise that somewhere in the repeat play loop of my brain I remember a vignette.
A dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a white cotton shirt that is fluttering in the breeze of her open window, is looking at me as she drives past in a green Renault Megane. I am standing by the fountain longing that the water were potable. We look at each other for about five seconds as she changes from first to second gear. She has passed me before my brain suggests that I could smile at her. Or nod. Or make any small sign of acknowledgement. Nevertheless, she has been recorded and I will no doubt, from time to time, replay this loop until my curtain falls.
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