A fast drive through cold London. Orange night, orange clouds, white tiles in the Blackwall Tunnel. The always unexpected right fork to the A21. The darker dark of the Weald.
The sleepless oven clock.
A ginger cat cleaning himself on the bed beside me, a black cat sitting on my desk.
Three alpacas grazing in the paddock, three hens drinking from the pond.
Your voice coming from the room next door. The hum of the house when you go for a walk. I listen in Italian.
The last roses of the year.
The blue Formica of my desk. Its hardly-dare-touch-it cold.
Piles of dry washing in the spare room. The washing-machine's song. Your still-unpacked bag.
The sun, setting too early behind the oak tree.
The Time Out Guide to Florence and Mini Italian Dictionary among a pile of papers on the sofa.
A cup of tea, an extra jumper.
Waiting for my mother to get off the phone.
The smell of dead mouse; compost; woodsmoke; the fridge.
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