A Bristol Novella

On the balcony which hangs from the Georgian façade of my quarter-of-a-million Clifton crash pad I realise that, in the four years I have lived here, so has this bay tree. Each winter it is covered in a thick later of white. And around this time of year, it emerges, unscathed. On the work surface of my desk which now faces the office across the road (The blonde woman there, who sits on Facebook all day, enjoys watching me dress, drink and dance) is: a note with the lists of academic references, scrawled words I can no longer comprehend; a original copy of Newer Sarum 1949, and two books pending review. And I guess what I am trying to say is, Hey. Once this is over, I am all over this.