Cold circles back with icy grey skies and thoughts of snow. We watch the sky and, intermittently, it rains. It’s the sort of weather that can be shrugged off, cold enough to warrant preparing an evening fire. In the evening we are driving to Plymouth. The windscreen is rain speckled. Beyond the glass, cloud has filled up so much of the sky it has spilt over onto the ground. In the mist, whispers of shapes. The traffic is a river of brake lights, slow flowing. Trees, older than the road, crouch. Domed industrial units menace with bulk. Things in the mist are hidden, it makes them easy to imagine transformed. This is not what everyone means by the phrase ‘living in a fairy tale,’ but my ego thinks it should be.


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