Yesterday. Nine o’clock, morning. In the kitchen. Back from my early morning walk, twenty brisk minutes up and down the hill, a cup of English Breakfast tea halfway in Rosie Lee with a scan of the morning paper to catch up on current trends in history. Before that, the daily discipline, challenge, joy and delight of another 500 word-steps of the book. And even before that, first thing on waking up, watching the light creep in the window and rolling over to kiss the bundle under the blankets beside me, my sleeping Beloved, before tip-toeing downstairs.
Outside, nine o’clock, squeezed into tubes – no, Tubes – a mass of humanity compressed into different shapes, sharing their breath, fragrances of Starbucks and Caffe Nero, newly washed faces and freshly cleaned teeth, all the scents from all the bottles in Boots, bodies crushed by backpacks, boots by brief-cases, the screaming sounds of machinery impelling the steel sausage along the track, disemboweled at every stop by many-headed multitudes hurtling up and down steps and stairs to work to work to work to work ah-choo-choo.
And here I stand, squeezing oranges, by hand, feeling the unique texture in my palm, squishing the fruit on to the squeezy thing, thinking of where this orange grew, how it found its way to Sainsburys, and was chosen, by me, to come home and be squeezed.