rimey

I am like a child, up at daybreak, rushing around the house and sticking my camera phone out of various windows trying to capture the frosty morning. There is a fine layer of rime over everything.

My mother's bedroom window faces the old house which is now a fortress of red brick since construction of the ten foot wall around the property. I can't imagine what happened to the old garden wall with the day lilies and the pink climbing roses or the old dog run where Vagabond and Barley lived. It looks a bit like that Berkshire McManse that was built for Andrew and Fergie when they first married. It was never a beautiful house but it had charm and character and ivy and sacrasanct windows that kept away evil spirits. Now it's just nouvelle circa 1984 (minus the finely diced tomatoes and fleurs du carotte).

So I don't look that way, but towards Aylesbury vale and imagine what a lovely crisp morning it would be for a ride across those fields, while I sip my tea in the bath and contemplate my trip to Waitrose.