Ellie goes to the bank.
Here, Ellie leaves the house. Note the paused half-turn on the sill: face bowed, reflective; eyes tight and white-knuckled like sharp fists as she reviews The List of Forgotten Things. Confident, she shuts the door and makes two broad strides towards the gate before an abstract arrest sends her back inside, to emerge minutes later with an umbrella that, after a scouring of the local sky, is left lying inutile and limply pathetic against the porch wall.
In the street: Ellie walks delicately with a spread, lingering tread, long of stride and bent knee as if stepping over obstacles unseen. As if the street is a slippery kitchen lino, stretched and strewn with the toys of imaginary children. Further along she spies a dog-shit piled high, crusted and pat-a-caked like a christmas pudding, a shiny six-pence inside.
Ellie is going to The Bank .