I’m doing something I despaired of ever being able to do again: sitting in my, albeit temporary, garden (see header image for the view from this table) typing, and smoking a fag. A parakeet squeaks, like a wonky teddy-bear, in a nearby tree.
We arrived last night, plunging into the middle of a family preparing for a complicated long distance trip, to be shown how the house and its contents’ function (I’ve already forgotten how to switch the oven on); told the best/easiest/nearest places to buy food (farmers market on Sunday; supermarket across the main road); be fed (Nepalese take-away); and woke this morning (at six!) to hear them all leaving. The house is now ours for the next three and a bit weeks. I feel like Virginia Woolf.*
Like any coffee obsessive I brought my coffee and pot with me. I’m currently on my second cup, and my observation for today: London presents an entirely distinct flavour. The exact same coffee, prepared in the exact same way tastes radically different here, no better or worse, but noticeably altered. Yet I know this bouquet, it reminds me of a past life. I’ll try and find out whose.
*Or maybe Anna Wulf, though my notebook isn’t golden.