It suddenly occurred to me on my late night walk with Monty that I hadn’t seen the moon in ages – months, it seemed. So I had a proper look for it, peering between the gables and chimneys, and down the long streets.
I began to become a little alarmed.
The moon simply wasn’t there anymore.
How had this happened without the world noticing? What would be the consequences? Tides … ladies’ problems … lunar metaphors … all gone.
And now it had vanished, I realised that I couldn’t even remember what it looked like. I tried to picture it, but all I could ‘see’ were the memories of illustrations of the moon, and not the moon itself. They had the wrong level of clarity. Usually memory adds a degree of haze to what was clear, rendering outlines indistinct. But on this occasion the metamorphosis had been reversed, and that which was hazy had become unnaturally distinct.
But this was all just whimsy. I turned a corner and there it was, in its usual place, just behind Waitrose. A pleasant creamy colour, with just the right degree of haze. I say just behind Waitrose but, of course, if you yourself were standing behind Waitrose that wouldn’t be the case. Then the moon would be behind something else. I don’t know, whatever it is that’s behind Waitrose. Not that I’ve ever been behind Waitrose. Why would I? Except now the idea of ‘behind Waitrose’ draws me. I’m imagining a new world, full of wonders. A bowling alley. An orphanage. A petting zoo.
(This is not the moon. It’s a ginnel, near my flat. Sort of pretty though, eh?)