Sunday. Bright and early I write a note to Rowan and do a gentle half-hour jog through the snow to his towpath mailbox. He will return from his Buddhist retreat tonight.
There are spent fireworks from New Year along the canal. The world is still asleep. When I get back, my bedsit looks forlorn, and is freezing. But hopefully I won’t, after all, need to fill in these forms and get onto the housing list.
I’d like to go straight back out. Meet a pal. Drink coffee. Commiserate about our crap Christmases. Have a laugh. I’m sick of Tiffany and talking about make-up.
I can’t text Bel again. Not when she snubbed my last one.
I put on my dressing-gown and gloves and return to bed.
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