There is a palpable sense of excitement on a day when something unusual is going to happen – like a day when, as a child, you are heading off on a summer holiday - early morning, dad packs the Ford Consul and traces an index finger over a multi-coloured map.
Troubadour: any of a class of lyric poets who flourished principally in Provence and N Italy from the 11th to the 13th centuries, writing chiefly on courtly love in complex metric form, a travelling minstrel, a singer of folk songs, jongleur, minstrel, poet-singer.
Riding the train from Barnes Bridge to Brentford, wearing a dead man’s suit. Looking back up the track to where we’ve come from with no idea where we’re going. Sunlight flashing off silver wings and feather trails in a brilliant blue late summer sky. Brentford 9.30am. I’m early. I was born early.