I stole a quick walk in the afternoon after writing and drawing most of the morning. The mist was still heavy, the colour of the day distinctly gloomy. But the smells were gorgeous. Leaf mould, damp earth, moist air – I think I could even smell the mist. They filled me up and my head spun with unbidden memories of kicking my wellied feet in drifts of fallen leaves, of the smoky scents of burning wood, of melancholy weekends, of moping and happy to be so.
It’s a mystery. There’s always one. Just one. One of his T-shirts that is always inside out in the dirty washing pile. He can’t explain it. And nor can I.
