It’s the end of summer, but the electric fan is still whirring.
The holiday in Provence has already ebbed away, but I still remember the light, the ochres, and the lovely rose’ wines.
I have cleaned the office in my farmhouse, but the papers and books are already building up around me.
Computers hum. The neighbours have gone away. My child is asleep by 8.30, clung to Pickles the bear with impossibly long arms and legs.
There is work to be done. But my mind is elsewhere.