The evening had lingered slowly, but now it was definitely night, and I did not care to be abroad.
The dark is where bad things happen.
I estimated that the taxi was likely to cost in the region of six pounds, but I had no choice.
I put on my seat belt and closed the glass panel that separated me from the driver.
I had no desire to hear his views on association football, the city council or any other topic.
I had only one thing on my mind. Or, more accurately, one person.
I realized after an hour or two that I wasn’t going to be able to sleep after my earlier adventuring.
I put on the light and looked down at my nightdress. I have two, to allow for alternate washing.
They are identical, both of them ankle-length with a high neckline, made of cozy brushed cotton.
They’re lemon-colored (the shade reminds me of explosively fizzy boiled sweets, not a feature of my early childhood but a comforting image nonetheless).
When I was young, for a treat, Mummy would pop a pimento-stuffed olive into my mouth,
or, occasionally, an oily anchovy from a coffin-shaped yellow-and-red tin.
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