The writer Robert Dessaix (on whom I’ll post tomorrow) says that mindfulness is a kind of attentive tranquillity. Like a dog [has]. (But not a cat.)

In that spirit these tiny scraps of driftwood on the shore of dailyness.

The phone rings. Hello.
Do you sell the calendula? (It’s an old woman. How can I tell? But we just can.)
Ah, you have the wrong number.
Oh. But … what’s the right number?

+ + +

Waited at the the council office for the ancient father-in-law to relicence his poodle.
He came out waving two bits of paper: They ran out of staples!

A council office running out of staples, what a laugh!

This lucky bit of the world we live in.

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