Nae fog, nae swearing. Crow just.
A cold night. The fire flickering on the ceiling. A lovely peroration on the importance of dialogue by Jan Carson on late night Radio 4. Chilly at -3 or -4.
But quickly cleared when I dared come out of the duveed pit to face the breaking day. And after tea and coffee and toast burnt on the inkept overnight fire I changed wiper motors without una bestemmia - no swearing signor. Just a little back and forth getting the wiper registers right. Masking tape and persistence.
Later to see GL and then back to Fizz through the falling light. A homebound mid-January night.
Meantime waiting stepped into a cafe for a coffee. Strada’s oldsters clustered round a game of cards like sleepy bees waiting for spring’s release - all sharp angles and laughing eyes. A revelation.
The crow a slip of Mypex or antialga swept up into the apple tree by a rogue northerly or our own freezing tramontana.
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