Under the mist a steamroller squishes fresh road surface. Under our feet, flinty little chippings to be marvelled at. And my fingers are cold, I tell Mr; the autumn is cooling, I feel it. Against the mist, blockish bovine shapes observe our passing. The bullocks are curious; packed solid with brisk curiosity, crowding at the gate. At the edge of the tar sprayed lane, slugs venture; only one that I see is crossing the unfamiliar terrain, the rest recoil; it’s the first time I’ve witnessed slugs in uproar.
Before work, I smell of sun lotion and fresh air. I sit and draw careful lines: flowers growing from a grave pile of rocks.
Our shy neighbour calls through the hedge- would we like some green beans? She hands them through a small gap of hazel while we discuss the merits of a petrol mower.
After work, the night air has a zesty slice of ice to it. Mist hides the road, we believe, and that seems to keep the road firmly in existence, whereas fields have blurred to impossible softness. You could squash them into any shape, any density.
Under the grill, sausages roll. I hear the meat fizz, feel the heat of the electric element, in the white box that cooks our food. This was a gift, this slim fit oven, so neatly slotted into our small kitchen. From the tall silver fridge I fetch a jar of damson chutney. On the whole, I think, things bump along; on the whole, quite smoothly.