At the railway station a man on the phone. "I'm just going to have to go with this and put my head in the tiger's mouth," he said.
In a field beside the train track someone is growing redundant golf buggies.
At Euston black clad commuters like rooks move too fast toward the exit and my heart begins to beat in urban panic. I feel out of place, a shadow in a crowd. Then I see a poster of a leaping clown and heart lifts again.
At the V&A the exhibition of quilts is astonishing. Seeing the Rajah Quilt face to face is like meeting something really famous. So delicate, so beautiful. Fine stitches worked on a dark prison ship by young hands.
Walking back through the sculpture gallery I see a tiger with a man's head in his mouth.
Meeting with Frances Lincoln and we talked about the Nursery Rhymes book and I Am Cat and I met all the wonderful people who work so hard to sell the books both here and abroad. Far more positive than meetings had been in the past. And we talked about a story that I had jotted down notes for a few years ago, about a panda.
On the way back to the tube station a black cat crossed my path.
On the tube on the way back to Euston a woman snoozed. Her shopping bag was the same bright daffodil yellow as her shoes.
From the train a brief glimpse of a rider on a white horse in an emerald green field.
Back at Robin's and I wonder, did the man put his head into the tiger's mouth?