The ceiling holds me in a dry awake. I love theologising sleep, the blue tack mark non interuption where no phone rings and no one speaks. Snug in my mountain sleeping bag I hold the torch up,
The boy next door is plotting to take over the street, he holds his mug like a mother and chats to me about ousting Blair computer screen savers and charity clothing appeals. He lays down a line of credit cards,
As the remote chance of bird flu entered Norfolk you fisted the chicken, slit small pods for the garlic, persuaded lemons to leak out of its skin. You brought the roast potatoes to the table and felt valuable as brand own salt