Pet Rescue

L has a friend who claims his cat saved his life last week, after he woke to the sound of claws tearing strips off his bedroom door in the middle of the night. Upon opening the door and balking on the gas fumes that had filled the rest of the house, he grabbed the cat - and the dog - and all three escaped to safety. L asked in half-seriousness whether friend had rewarded the cat for its loyalty.

'Yeah' came the earnest, flat-vowelled reply. 'I chucked out all me Iams and cooked it salmon'.

Brioche

M. brought this thing back from Spain. It's like a huge wheel of brioche, but it's laced with some sort of fig paste and it's rank. Don't get me wrong I am more than partial to a good fig roll, and figs in general, when the time is right. But this just doesn't work. So it's been rammed upright in its hexagonal box between the toaster and the bread bin, and no-one's touching it. No-one'll throw it out either because it was a gift. And the box is too big and awkward to cram into the bin. It'll stay there forever. Pariah Brioche.

The Old Village

Well I couldn't tell you where January went. Or December, for that matter. But suddenly it's five in the afternoon and not dark anymore and the mound has all but settled. There are daffodil shoots in the garden and a new phase of missing begins to take shape.

There is still a flat cap on a hook in the kitchen. There are shoes. And there is still an office chair keeping watch at the end of the bed. Nobody uses the back door anymore, and, in the driveway, too close to the wall on the passenger side, there is a gold Rover 25.

There has been no dream yet. Lots of people have said there will be a dream.

Baby steps. Slowly does it.