Julia Johnson

The notebook

“Oatmeal, apples, cream, the paper. Oatmeal, apples, cream, the paper.” He mumbled under his breath, trying his best to remember what he needed from the shops that morning. He walked past houses and gardens, the usual neighbours wrapping their kids up in sweaters before sending them off to school. He passed the sunflowers peeking at him through the wrought iron fence. Dogs waking. Sun shining. The day bright and ready. He passed a woman in brown boots and tan corduroy pants, hurried. Undistracted, he repeated “Oatmeal, apples, cream, the paper.”