For a split second this morning, as I walked back from the dry cleaning, my purple silk dress flapping in its thin plastic cover, I considered going out for a coffee. You must understand that someone who works at home rarely gets to speak to anyone unless this anyone is purposely looked for. When I go out for a cup of java, I get to exchange a few words with the gal or guy who makes it for me. When I don’t, chances are that the first few words I utter come out in the evening when Rich returns from work.
I was soon cured of that though; my nose has been dripping all day and I feel that creepy, icy sensation taking hold of me even as I lie on the sofa with a hot water bottle, two cashmere blankets, a pashmina and an alpaca cardie for company. All the better it is happening now and not at Crimbo or not next week; I am going to Nottingham for work with a poetess on Monday.
