damp

It is cold now, it is cold at night.  The blanket is too skimpy, it was plenty in summer and, now that winter is here, it is insufficient.
The feet are warm, the socks were left on. It was a learnt from the night before, freezing feet are bad for sleep. The son comes into the bedroom, he brings coffee for the wife. Get up, there is no wish for coffee in bed, and make a coffee.
Extra strong.

Sit at the table wearing a dressing gown and read the news. There is nothing new happening, all of the world's disasters are just proceeding. As they do. America has changed from a well spoken villain
to a bad mannered lout. Britain remains what it ever was, a snobbish spoilt brat. And Ireland cannot cop with a nouveau riche existence,
Germany is realising that people will not be car mad for ever, there are other things in life.

The son wishes to go to the café.
Say later.
Go to the bedroom, put on day clothes.

It is raining outside, the café is full, the air inside is warm and water-laden, damp and stuffy.
Drink a cup of their second rate overpriced coffee.

And then a saturday walk through the damp little town.