There’s a softness that comes with waking up somewhere warm, worn out from doing very little. On the first morning it happens, sheet kicked into rough …
We arrive to blistering blue and talk over open books as the tide pulls out. At first, only the small cars try the wet road beneath the sea. Then the m…
The showers arrived, and they were late. In April the soil was cold and hard. Cracks appeared underfoot, small and thirsty valleys. We took to train to…
The mornings have been growing yolky. M insisted on deep yellow curtains in the bedroom, and so we get Chelsea mornings even in Brixton, on grey days. …
Before the curtains open, before my eyes open, it is my ears that try to detect what the weather is doing. The hard slick of tyre on wet tarmac, the pu…
I would have been careful on the steps the first time I walked up them. Breath hanging in the air, the country in the grip of snow, and the short bus r…
The rain comes in like it’s been produced by a machine on a film set. Heavy and slanting, it collides with the drifts and puffs of air from the boiler …
Once the lilac fades, and the seedheads have turned russet and crispy, purple asters transform. A neat mass of feathery seeds like a rabbit tail, surpr…
Sometimes autumn is so bright, so fantastic, that it verges on surreality. A bingo card of cliche. Hurtling down the M3 yesterday I won them all: low m…
The thing is, we’d talked about this. There was that evening, somewhere in the middle of sticky July, where we walked home through the park as the dusk…
It takes a couple of days to miss the dawn. The first morning I find it seeping out around the blind, a deep and searing orange. We sleep in the eaves,…
At the moment, we sleep in the back bedroom. The other one, the one that is not our study, has been caught between old and new for a few weeks now. Dus…