Saturday 23 November 2013

The Flotsam and The Jetsam - Well, the photo is.

The kitchen this morning is a mess; the dirty dishes are not even stacked up beside the sink but lie instead where each person sat during the day: the table has disappeared beneath an assortment of half opened letters, partly read books and maybe-I’ll-look-at-this-one-day papers; the window sill is inaccessible.

But for real detritus you need to visit my car.

You could grow something in the dirt and disorder.

In fact something does.

And I know, somewhere in the back, beneath the plastic bags and wires, the bread crumbs and the pizza boxes, the torn newspaper and mouldy sandwiches I will find the snow chains rusting from last winter and waiting to be returned to their box.

Which is probably somewhere under the front seat.

I think of this as I lie in bed.

As I also think of this: can you tell, without drawing the curtain, whether it snowed during the night and that you will wake to a world transformed?

They said that it would.

The temperatures have dropped.

And, although it is early, the sounds outside seem softly absent.

A solemn stillness lies.

I might need those chains.

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