Going past Corpus Christi, the moon peered out from around a ridiculous tower, huge and pale and ghostly-white. The cobbles were seamed with shiny foil confetti.
Walking over Magdalen Bridge, the last pink had drained from the sky, leaving it bloodless white, a tree of white blossom, two white cranes guarding the horizon, and over it all the flat white disk of the moon.
At the bottom of Cowley Road, the sky had darkened to luminous blue. Someone had trailed long garlands of plastic pink flowers out of an upstairs window and I remembered an old green record shop that had been there years ago.
As I turned into Randolph Street, the sky was deep deep blue and the moon was shiny white over the half-built mosque. In the still evening, the birds were singing so loud they mixed with the music, and though Damian was right behind me I never heard a thing.
My nephew has a name now! In this week's strip, I receive a txt alerting me to the arrival of little Tobi Miro Pitt (though he wasn't named for another good week). I saw this frog but I'm not sure ... he has so many aunties, won't he have enough toys already?