The morning draws on. The muffled thrum of a neighbour’s lawn mower provides the base note to the batting rhythm of a moth against the large window. There is someone somewhere in the house. A staccato of heels, the shudder of an old water pipe. A waft of coffee brewing. It cuts across the scent of gladioli. It is peaceful here. Beautiful. So beautiful. Time hangs still between the slow tock of an old clock. “Do you like my old house?” I turn with a smile and answer her. “Yes. Oh yes, very much.”
A lovely via .