Sleepless Nights

It's on the third floor. There is a large window overlooking a small wood. A copse, I think it would be called.

Not to be confused with a corpse.

The floor of the room is covered in a kind of plastic covering with the appearance of some kind of wood grain repeated endlessly in a diagonal pattern.

There's a TV on the wall, but it's not on.

Looking out of the window I note that the summer sun is preparing to set and stripe the sky with orange and pink bands.

I can see two couples walking at the extreme edges of my area of view. They are walking towards one another. They are walking along a path which has a fence on the copse side. I suspect to stop animals wandering, though which animals reside in these woods I have not the faintest idea. Deer, maybe? Wild boar?

One of the couples has their arms around each other and their heads inclined towards one another. They are quite obviously in love. From time to time they stop and kiss, then they carry on walking.

The other couple, the couple walking towards them, are walking with at least five feet between them. They are arguing about something. I can't hear what, of course. Not from this distance. The man gesticulates energetically occasionally. The woman keeps pace with him, but says nothing and keeps her hands to her side and her head down.

These four people, these two couples, are about two hundred yards from one another, closing, on average, at about five miles per hour.

There's a painting on the wall. No, two paintings, but in one frame. Or are they prints? If so they are very good ones. If they are prints I suppose we should call them pictures. One of the pictures shows a Norman church on top of a slight hill. The church is in poor shape, but not what you what call a ruin. Not yet, anyway. There's rather an attractive cemetery surrounding it. What makes it attractive? There is an unusual monument showing two angels praying back to back.

The other picture is of a horse. There is somebody saddling the horse. A little girl. I have no idea why the two pictures are in one frame, but somehow they fit well together.

There is a strip-light illuminating the pictures from above. It's the only lighting which is on at the moment.

Looking out of the window again I can see that the two couples are meeting now, blissfully unaware that they will soon be widening the gap between them again at about five miles per hour. On average.

In the far background you can just make out the lights of a small town twinkling in the dusk. It looks as pretty as a picture postcard.

There is a bookshelf attached to the wall. The bookcase has been fitted above the bed.

I can see the names of some of the authors: Wilbur Smith features a lot. Ken Follet. Joseph Heller. Joseph Heller is dead, I know that. I am not sure about the other two. I should think they are still alive and kicking. I hope so.

I wish Joseph Heller was. I loved his Catch 22. Once you've read it you become aware of so many catch 22's in everyday life.

There's a Montaigne. And a Gilbert Ryle. And a Bertrand Russell.

Below the shelf there's a bed. To the right of it, if you are standing at the foot of the bed, like I am, is a little cabinet. On top of it there's a glass of water, but it's been standing there so long there is a fine covering of dust on the surface of the water.

On the left there is a small and rather uncomfortable little chair with a plastic covered backrest but no arm rests.

The sheets on the bed are extremely white. Almost painful to look at when the sun is shining directly on them. Right now there is no sun shining on them, of course, but they still seem to glow as though they were slightly radioactive.

There are lots of objects in this room that I could waste your time and mine by describing.

But the most important thing in this room is in the bed.

It's my friend, Willy Blickwinkel.

He's dead.