Despite excellent pastries, yesterday was a bad day. Near the end of it, Benedict Ambrose coaxed me out of the house for a walk.  The evening air was soft and warm. 

I followed B.A. along the route up the hill to where the Romans built their fort and multimillionaires now live behind high 17th century walls.  One of them has what sounds like a three-headed dog rushing forward from hell to rip our guts out. The rest of the village is usually tranquil and almost silent 

On our way back, the wall along the path loomed in the gloaming, and my heart actually lifted. I do not know why unless, like the Historical House the wall gives a sense of permanence. I don’t think it is A-listed, but I very much doubt any of the villagers would permit its maiming or destruction. Thus, billionaires may make coercive plans for humanity, or journalists may write that they do, and plagues may rage, or  politicians say that they do, and yet the wall will still stand. 

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