Greenlack

I spend most of the day inexplicably upset, prowling the boundaries of the house, dragging the things I need to do through the bars of the cage with a kind of outraged resolve.

It is dark by the time I realise that I am hopelessly starved for greenness, for trees and leaf litter, spiderwebs and nettles banking the edges of everything, boot prints and hoof prints and puddles floated with a feather. Robins and tits and chaffinches and wood pigeons casting off from a tree like they might be something more interesting.

I should have put aside everything I did today and put mine among the other bootprints. But instead there is clean laundry and some handled email and two paragraphs about gumbles.

I shall tell you all about gumbles tomorrow.