it is three minutes to eight, the coffee maker is on the gas cooker, the cat is exploring the furniture, looking for things that might not have been there yesterday. And that is all, but for the son listening to some production on the computer explaining the ins and outs of computers.
It is Saturday morning, a dull wintery day. A miserable day.
A day for a walk, by the river, look at those trees now, the bare ones killed by the beavers, and the bare ones in hibernation.
Let the cat out, get a cup of coffee, hope that the back will warm up to the days activities soon, allow the follies of do it yourself building work to disappear.
The clocks on the wall are ticking away, the curious sounds of those French electromagnetic clocks.
They must be ninety years old now, still ticking.
It is Saturday morning, a dull wintery day. A miserable day.
A day for a walk, by the river, look at those trees now, the bare ones killed by the beavers, and the bare ones in hibernation.
Let the cat out, get a cup of coffee, hope that the back will warm up to the days activities soon, allow the follies of do it yourself building work to disappear.
The clocks on the wall are ticking away, the curious sounds of those French electromagnetic clocks.
They must be ninety years old now, still ticking.
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