Laura is coming and we message each other through the week. As I write this now, we are emailing and I can’t believe that the weekend went so fast and we won’t see her for six months.
I am working from home one day and behind me I can feel the light changing – a rainfall and dark shadows and then the room filled with peaky light. Lean my head out of the window and watch the pressure of the cloud pushing up left, as if it is leaning on the end of my street. And a few hours later, a roll of thunder and I get up from my desk to open the window again, fresh cold rain on my face and bouncing silver off the ground.
A new studio space of my own, a new desk with friendly faces and light through the window. I am happy to be here with the design agencies and the fashion girls and the cagoule tourists upstairs – and me writing down here.
Dig out a book I love because the author speaking on the radio this morning. She’s published a new book and Fabs tells me about it when we meet on Sunday night. I get a postcard from across the sea with gorgeous words from Mali, and I run my thumb over the airmail stamp. As I read it standing by the window, the sound of a door slam and I look up to see the family across the road trooping out to the mosque for evening prayer. All these fragments stitched together.
Laura drinking wine on my bed when she gets in, making me snort with laughter. Night time places with Sian and Katie, Sian’s brother so tall. Arms around backs, the acidic taste of cheap wine, morning light on our way home. The canal in the daytime, weekend sun sharp in our eyes and a lucky win on a horse. Speaking to my grandpa who has a bet on, pressing the phone to my ear to hear his voice, and later with Lori and Kriss in a square around their table.