The dog who was really a man

I look out the window, taking the man walking past to be a dog.  But he isn’t.  Not this time anyway.

I look into my tea instead.  It’s safer.  Green gunpowder with mint and sugar, in the Moroccan style.

Outside, the weak and watery sun is sinking to the sea, across the park.  Soon it will be dark again.  This is about the lightest it’s been all day.  I try not to sink with it.

I should take down the Christmas cards and put them away.  By this, I mean throw them in the bin.  I can’t face that small hit of agony as I look at each and throw it out.  I always hold onto a few, though not many make it into the box. Except the one from N, of course.

I sip my tea.  It's becoming cold already.  Yesterday, in Bristol, I ate Moroccan lamb with stewed vegetables – a lamb tagine, I suppose.  Except there was no lamb, so it was beef.  Lunch with Nic.

Once again, my attention is turning to Spain.  I’ll fly to Madrid when I can.  I mean soon – within a month.  I can stay with Nic and visit C and bolster my historical research with atmosphere – which I shall simply absorb – and sun. 

The shadows in the corners of the room are intensifying and creeping towards me.    I find myself longing for summer.  Only the window seat is lit. I move to sit in daylight for just a few more minutes. 

A message from Malawi. 

Outside the window, the dog who was really a man has gone – high-tailed it.  Who would blame him?  Finding himself in such a predicament.