… Buying yards of creamy plain linen and measuring, cutting, feeding carefully through the sewing machine to make new curtains. Curtains that let the sunlight shine through – a soft diffused light.
… Sitting by the river on the trunk of an ancient horse chestnut tree. Its trunk split and running for several metres along the ground, slightly sloping down towards the river where gnarled roots, tangled and slick with mud slip quietly into the water’s edge. Above me the sky is obliterated by a vast canopy of branches and leaves, which mingle with the branches of the nearby sycamore, creating a natural shelter. That sycamore must be well over a hundred years old, its vast trunk of rough bark more than three metres around, I’m guessing. It’s calling me to go and put my arms around it, but I won’t in this public place. Is it just my imagination or can I feel its aged peace, its wisdom, its tranquility seeping into me as I sit beneath? The screech of brakes in the nearby car-park reminds me I have a bus to catch.
… The tension of connection between fountain pen and paper, just the right amount of pressure for the smooth flow of inky words.