It is Saturday afternoon. She knows it is. You have to keep a good grip on time, one firm hand clasped around its collar, because if you let it go, its meaning will slip away from you and you’ll never get it back. Meanings are important, and if you’re going to let them go, you have to be damn sure you’ve got something in their place. And she certainly isn’t sure of that. So she marks it on a calendar, a large one with pictures of Bournemouth through the seasons. It’s not particularly attractive, but then it’s Bournemouth. They can’t work miracles. {read}