A Bristol Novella

I'm waiting outside the station, standing next to my luggage, red Ralph Lauren weekend bag and a 1967 Wooden Champagne create, sealed. And snow starts drifting in, caught in the fur on my ski jacket. Jacques pulls up in his silver A3 and we hug hello, and exchanged the kind of pleasantries that old friends do and load my luggage into his car, and he looks at the create as if to suggest its unessential and I laugh.

'You and I know you can't get the good stuff out here' the rough wood catching the orange street light. The moon reflecting in the centre mirror.And it's crisp outside, minus 6, and Jacques looks up and smiles and drops the boot shut.

And we get in the car, and don't say anything until we get to where we're going, just stare at the familiar streets, note the small changes, new hotels, bars, old haunts. And we pull up outside the library and make out way to a wine bar, Gandy Street, and slide into a table.

'So do you think you'll survive, it's not the bright lights here baby?' Jacques
'Sure, why not?'
'It's been months'

I finger the menu. Shiraz or Merlot? 'Three, and I'm pretty sure I'll be fine. I'll just have to cut out going to nice restaurants' Shiraz. 'Super premiums' Berry Estates. 'cigarettes, you know, all the good things that you cant find out in the sticks.'

silent laugh 'I'm sure mummies little prince won't go without'.

And several bottles later we split, and end up cruising the streets that we walked at college, reminiscing, and the CD clicks repeat and we make our way home.

And it feels weird, being driven on these roads, lanes, no driving. Being here. Knowing I'm home. Almost like I've been missed out. Jacques's wheels spin on ice at the bottom of the drive. And I get out, tell him I'll see him tomorrow, turn, and look up into the stars, the light catching the cottage above, and smile as I make my way towards the house.