A pair of lonely blue knickers pegged to the line outside a black wooden house. Pegged by three pegs against the sea wind, which even now in summer is remarkably strong. I pull the collar of my trench coat up, hold it against the back of my neck, a spot sure to attract flu mother always said. G sets up his video camera - shaky on shingle shore - to document the day. Twenty four movements responding to the weather – dependant on wind, rain, humidity, sun...the swoop of clarinet at the border between wild and tame, skirting the forest, dipping a toe in wondering whether to enter and let go of what it knows. But intelligent and keen it senses the border is its only home. Tense and tender. Crisp horizon formed by neat plucks of violin strings. T comes and jams two black sticks into the stones next to me. It is his way of reminding me of him while I am writing and he does not want to or fears interrupting me. Smooth but nervous loops of Ds and Gs on piano make me tense, on edge amongst the sunshine and swearwords drifting up to me from my friends' conversations below. It is a sound that makes me want to be underwater, holding my breath for a little too long then giving in to oxygen. You look like a detective in that coat, T says, breaking the silence between us, wanting a touch, a link. I need a newspaper with holes in front of my eyes, I say. He smiles broad and silly and I sidle towards him a spell. The day is bright and the sea crashes behind me and is translated.