Hadiya Nassar (born 1944) was killed outside her front door in Gaza today by Israeli sniper. She was older than Israel.

‘More books, more anarchy’

In the bleak mid-winter a festival of light begins and a luminous mischief maker dies.

‘The A-Z clamped a grid on despair.’

 Last night dogs and children flew across the rooftops of this city.

‘Open your eyes and see what you can with them before they are closed forever.’

These are the words of the professor - his voice travelling across the airwaves (shortwave frequency 13.10)

Today is Thanksgiving.

Protesters block the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade in New York.

The cold creeps in. Robins perch amid deep red rose hips. Calling to each other.

Today a poet was kidnapped.

It is International day of children commemorating the Declaration of the Rights of the Child by the UN General Assembly on 20 November 1959.

Days are clustered like bombs. The pace of work is faster than the pace of writing.

Today I go North up the Valley again. I imagine the contour lines of the map I am travelling. Widely spaced. Water higher than land in weighty reservoirs.

The day starts with song. Neighbour Max in singing Bread and Roses – a song he’s loved for a long time. So much so he’s getting a tattoo of ‘bread and roses’ on his arm.

I ‘m hurtling backwards through space and time. My booking of a forward-facing window seat on the Euston - Manchester Piccadilly train translated as a backward-facing seat with a view of nothing.

The BBC came to the street today. They’re following up on last year’s visit when a presenter prowled the street below us waving up at us in our rooftop eyrie.

Morning begins with a carrier bag of poo. Patrolling the garden and picking up the dog mess.

With the amount of shit happening right now Ursula Le Guin’s carrier bag theory of fiction pops to mind.

Slogans, signs and spin. ‘Take back our streets’ is a pillar of the new Labour party plan adopting the far right ‘take back control’ language of Farage and Co

A day of rest.

And restless thoughts.

Where’re your poppies? Where’re your fucking poppies?”

The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. A minutes silence interrupted and corrupted.

Two emails pop into my inbox in quick succession.

Civic Futures. For the last few months I ‘ve been part of a cohort of people on the ‘Civic Futures Fellowship’-