Spent the morning eating chocolate – rolling each square
around and around with my tongue, until the chocolate melted, and coated the
roof of my mouth. Then I’d wash it away
with a swig from a flask of strong, dark coffee, put my feet up, and gaze out
into the small garden. The rain had left
standing water in places, and droplets of rain still clung to the bare branches
of the apple trees, and when a bird alighted, the branches shook imperceptibly
and the droplets of rain shuddered from them, back into the sinking ground. The sky was overcast, the cloud cover giving
a grey-purple light to the garden which made the lawn seemed greener than ever
- almost fluorescent, but for the brown, leafy puddles. The house was gloomy, but I was enjoying the
natural light, and the dull shades of colour it gave to the living room. And because of the rain, humdrum sounds from
outside were dampened, and all I could really hear was the low splutter of
the gas boiler, and the slow ticking of the nautical clock, that once belonged
to my father, on the mantelpiece. I was
wearing my thick cotton socks, and an old Guernsey, things were warm and peaceable. And I had a second-hand paperback with me in case I felt the need to exert
myself, but I did not, was content instead to open a page at random and
inhale the dry, sweet smell of old paper, idly dreaming up a lazy narrative of
my own.
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