Night, but not too late. I walk past the courthouse and notice the stub of a concrete bollard buried in the lawn. Elsewhere, neatly distanced flowers are holding their moments: the flat blades of gladioli; ebbing crocus bulbs; soft, reddish clots on willowy trees, drooping, like fireworks. I think of falling over on the grass, drunk, or just unsteady. You would think yourself safe - such a perfectly manicured stretch leading up to the courthouse doors - but if you landed on the concrete stub you could break any bone, anywhere in your body.

At the gas station, the petrol reservoirs beneath the forecourt are being refilled. The petroleum drum on the back of the supply lorry has a painted tiger, mid-pounce. A man in a silver jacket walks past me, eyes glittering and wide. He is stiff-backed and he moves steadily forward, as if drawn upwards and across by two competing lengths of string. I imagine him playing guitar in the evenings. He moves in an unusual way, shimmering like lake water after dark. He might be drugged.

Earlier, on a video call, my mother told me she bought hundreds of tulip bulbs. A small number of them have turned out to be the 'wrong colour'. Dark red amidst a gentle haze of pink. She said she had to check her online order because she couldn't remember exactly what she'd purchased. She doesn't mind the mismatch. The bulb company have offered her a partial refund. She sometimes refers to that corner of the garden as 'my corner', because I once tried to plant things there. It doesn't get much sun. It's overhung with diseased ash and thick, waxy flanks of laurel.

Morning, but not too early. Someone has thrown a microwave oven and some rotted planks of plywood out onto the sidewalk so that you're forced to step over them. As I do so, the sound of a helicopter drifts overhead and combines perfectly with the drone of a lawn strimmer being operated by a man outside a house on the corner, and these noises combine with the drum roll playing in my headphones. To have and to hold three noises simultaneously, each with their own eager surge, is really something. I wonder who the helicopter team are looking for, or if someone is critically injured, or maybe they're just taking photos of the town. It's a clear day, warmest in living memory, which only reaches back as far as you need it to, and sometimes isn't there at all.