The surface of the road road I would normally take had disappeared. I took a different road to circumvent the huddle of yellow machinery and found myself lost. Lost in Limoux?
How can this be possible? Ezra and I have walked every inch surely, gaped at every wood-effect door, and neat gnome-filled garden; wondered who lives in the houses with the untidy exciting gardens and teased the yappy dogs that protect their master's homes.
Yes, lost. The no-entry signs were confusing, one way streets for no apparent reason; after a bit of hapless car-wandering I ended up at the municipal cemetery. I thought there was only one in Limoux, on the main road, a solid rectangle of ancient stone tombs: I must admit, though being a fan of death-logements generally, I have never been in that one. This will be rectified.
Anyway . . . I still had twenty minutes before the meeting so I parked and went into this one — rather than do the rectifying of going to see the other one — well, I was there then.
Anyway, as I said: twenty minutes.
Time; an odd thing. You can spent twenty minutes faffing trying to find where they have moved the tinned tomatoes in a supermarket, or glassily watching a game show, knowing it's crap but not being able to move, or sometimes those minutes, become stretched, embedded, something your mind chooses to remember.