By late morning I’d drunk as much strong coffee as I’d felt I’d consumed wine late the previous evening. In truth, I hadn’t, largely due to an ingrained inability to consume more than a relatively meagre amount of alcohol without quickly ending up in a harmless sleep. But, all the same, I’d found myself steadily sipping from a large mug, rough in appearance but, thanks to a thick glaze, soft on the lips. Frequent top ups, as if fearful someone else might empty the pot, inadvertently depriving me of an elixir I so desperately needed. The cycle of sluggish scribbling on a note page in my diary, repeatedly shuffling back into the kitchen for more coffee, eventually broken by my friend’s suggestion of a walk around nearby lanes. The short loop he called it.
An otherwise reflective mood had been brightened by the late May sun, tainted a little by the unexpected but gentle humidity. We’d discussed my talk at length late the previous evening, and, much to my surprise, felt sure I remembered all that mattered, and had managed to capture the essence of it in my diary. Sufficient at least to be able to recreate those parts I’d need to refine. And so the conversation was soon drawn to the merits of a suggestion I’d made a few days earlier, that of recording one of our walks for broadcast on the local community station. A pilot I’d suggested, and it’d be next year, perhaps spring would be best? And we’d some experience of radio, as interview and interviewee whilst I’d be out on the road. Shame to let such skills wither, but rather adapt the format. This time I’d ask the questions.
