I’m sat in a cafe, and it’s narcotic, I’m guessing from the decor that its trying to relive the past.
I’m almost a quarter of the way through my bacon sandwich, it’s nice, but I should have indulged in a full breakfast. You see, the table adjacent to mine did, and now they are gorging themselves on fodder that could have been mine.
There is something mesmerising about each fresh layer of snow, the way the layers compact and cleaves together on each fractured tree bow with adhesive icicles . . .
. . . Fascinating. . .
Today I climbed a mountain, the air was crisp and the pathway strewn with footprints of many walkers each treading the path that lay before my trudging boots. Judging by the depths of the varying indents, the size and stature of those that previously walked the blizzard like snow, varied immensely.
I’m at a service station on the M5, there is a woman sat outside on the kerbside.
She is holding a cardboard sign in front of her shawl-covered knees. The sign reads M50-Cardiff.
Multiple cars and lorries pass her by, likewise motorbikes and camper vans, each without a glance in her direction.
There is a long queue at Costa Coffee, yet the logjams at the alternative vendors are equally elongated, hence, I have settled for Costa, I rather enjoy their decaffeinated coffee and it is getting late.