A murky, lurksome London day tasting of stale station cappuccino. Exmouth market glittering with dust and tiny diamonds. Chicken and rice, and the smell of old Stella, and the quicksilver strains of Saint-Georges matching a pallid, underlit sky. Shuddering home, the rabbit-filled fields always remind me of Watership Down. To a child of dens and ditches, of mud and grass and brook and brush, of mulching leaves and dank dark holes, the fear in that film was terrible and familiar. I dreamt for weeks of hind legs thumping a bloody tattoo in a gamey world of madness.
That cartoon had the clean, cold, metallic taste of a blank autumn evening that has unexpectedly emerged from a warm absorbed afternoon, finding you a little too late, a little too tired, a little too far away. An evening when, your head suddenly raised as if to some call, the veils of fantasy would shrink away into the sour tang of bonfire smoke, and the edges of things would wizen and sharpen into crude, black-edged animation. Those timely rabbits tapped into some creeping childhood sense of loss and the panic of exposure. Sparked a dreadful, guilty, burgeoning desire for the chase.
Train limbo lunacy. I need home, a fig roll, and some sleep.