The morning is quiet and grey. The odd family car drives past, sidelights on, most only seem to have the one occupant and it’s usually Dad, the driver. There’s a breeze, the lilac and holly seem to tremble gently in it. Two rooks sit on the telephone wires right next to the tip of the pole. The garden has two piles of stripped tree cuttings, thin branches, almost shoots. There is soup to be made. Typing this out now, I’m grateful for how simple it all is.

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