A short walk this morning as domestic duties took precedence and ate into my fresh air time. A few late-night revellers ambled their way home from a bar on Terrace Road, most huddled up into pairs. A man’s voice came out through the misty drizzle as I turned the corner onto North Road. It was a dismembered sound that I took some time to locate. It wasn’t loud or sharp, a gentle voice which I saw belonged to a young man talking to his friend outside their house. It comforted me. The quietness of it.
When I got home I could hear that our neighbour was still awake and his TV was on. That unmistakable, yet long-forgotten sound of a theme tune. A western, cowboys, Clint Eastwood looking mean. Yes. I remembered just as I point my key in the door. Rawhide.
