Ovenproof

Today I have poached damsons with spoonsful of sugar, sliced celeriac into unnecessarily pretty slices for stock, put the bedding out to air in the sunshine, wandered the floorboards with my soles close, pressing my feet to the wood as if traces will someday be found in the grain, in the chocolatey-swirl knots. Berlin is outlandishly dusty as though it is the moon, fine greyish white dandery film covering everything, shiny cameos of book or tea cup lifted off the bedside table. Bladerunner bought two dozen brace or so of different safety pins for various rarified long-distance running purposes, and I find them about the place, wheedled in between the sofa cushions, in the kitchen drawers and one deep in the grey sheepskin rug, hibernating like a ladybird.

Last night I drank tequila and danced, and wondered.