Winter's Tale

In the dark in the mornings it's hard to find the floor. Pale shadows. the click of door handles. Run the tap. Stick the kettle on. Open a jar and check the milk. Nobody has Ovaltine first thing in the morning. Rain on the windows and wild winds coming and going but still rattling the chimney flue. Ashes in the fire place. Clean it up later and get some more firewood in. They're going to outlaw log burners soon and encourage heat pumps. I'm too far down the road for any of that. The roadway to Hell is paved with good intentions, most of which are just turned over and picked at by the crows.

They don't understand the insultion problems that most Scottish houses have, it's down to the way they were built back then. But understanding a problem before you take action isn't high on the current list of political skills and talents these days. Just do something that sounds about right, that makes a good a sound bite. It'll probably be the first thing that comes into your head or the head of your special advisor who has a degree in Australian flora and fauna. The BBC will run with it. They always do.

Breathing out the old man broke character and moved his thoughts on, "enough of that". Then he whispered something strange to the dancing shadows. He took time. He watched as they slowly disappeared into the wall, or wherever it is that shadows go once they're done. Then he went outside into the dim light and filled the feeders so that the birds might enjoy an early breakfast. There's still a lot of quiet satisfaction to be had out there. A calm sea of silence beats the thunder of a vacuum.