I am sitting in bed. The pearl grey sky behind the may blossom and copper beech is heavy with rain. The clock in the hall has just chimed the half hour (it’s slow), the cat has just climbed in the spare room window ( yes – upstairs! - where Dave sits with his computer) and come in to see me. She didn’t have wet feet so she didn’t leave muddy footprints on my newly washed patchwork quilt, which is what she did last week, and which is why the quilt is newly washed. There is a pheasant in the garden, making that awful scratchy croaking sound, and in the distance, a pigeon is cooing.
A moment ago the air was still and muggy. Now a faint breeze is coming in through the window and the leaves on the lime trees across the road are swishing.
My son in California rang last night – as he always does on a Sunday. I miss him. His (and the little red hen’s) first baby is due in July and I long to see them both now, and then immediately the baby is born. But my ticket is booked for September. I shall have to wait.
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