January 30

All night the wind harassed the roofs and treetops, rearranging anything it could. Ferries in the Channel hastened to safe-harbour; lifeboatmen and coastguards balanced on the edge of high-alert.  I dreamt of being lost in concrete stairwells – a university perhaps – looking for dorms, but finding doors to shopping malls, car-parks, or hospital wards – or locked. We oversleep, woken by the gentle insistence of the dog.  Downstairs, I open the curtains. The sharp white sun, low in its streaked sky, reveals dusty windows and other evidence of neglect.

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