A Bristol Novella

Few things have changed since Autumn, albeit the weather. And the trees. Which instead of being a mellow orange, are now whipped bear by the winter. And a blue sports car now takes the place of mine. And in a sudden moment of realisation it occurs to me that I was bought up in the equivalent of a beach house. Pinned geographically by seven or so beaches. Kept warm, even now, by the golf stream. Warm enough not to be snow covered, yet cold enough to turn the earth to granite.

And on the wall of the bedroom in which I stay, Churchill. Who stares through a pain of glass, blankly at the imperial desk. Eyes animated by reflections that rise and fall accross his face. And the hardwood floor, cold, and smooth. The walls, ebony, matt, absorbing northern light. Which falls, cut by venetian blinds, from thirteen degrees in the sky.

On the horizon clouds roll through woodland. Forming low laying mist. And it is to this that I drive. Where I change for a '96 Defender, Blue. Gateback. And in the frost we cruise the coast, deserted, and lifeless. Until we retire. The snug, oak panelled, lined with photographs. Last Summer, New Year, Graduation. An Alpaca rug. An open fire. Freshly cut wood.

And I realise this beach house, is more than a home.