Last December, I found myself in Langton Matravers, a village of silent stone cottages, high on a chalk ridge - I parked the red Peugeot opposite the locked church - a few hundred yards downhill was The Ship Inn -
I'd once called in there with Andy, after one of our walks along the coastal path - we'd braved salty icy gales from Winspit to Dancing Ledge - we'd then headed inland, crossing Priest's Way, over stony fields - it had started to hail - inside the frowsty pub, I'd snarfed a steaming pasty - Andy had told me stories about the young Kuwaiti elite, driving their powerful cars at night - they'd race each other along the expressways circling Kuwait City, new lords of creation -
Now Andy has moved out of The Tower - I had been shamefully negligent in not keeping in touch with him - standing in the porch of the church, I thought, for a moment, of all those people who had been close to me, and who I'd let drift away - I heard their voices, whispering shared stories -
Behind the church, I found a a small one storey building, with lichened roof tiles - it was a museum - I tried to peer through the windows, but inside all I could see was darkness - a notice told me that the museum was closed until April -
I imagined the curator, RJS, sitting motionless amongst obscure artifacts - perhaps he curated lost friendships - there, in the dark, were bright shadows, still glowing, still precious -
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