This part of the city was aggressively gray, but green life still struggled into being: moss on walls, weeds in guttering, the occasional forlorn tree.
I have always lived in urban areas, but I feel the need for green as a visceral longing.
Just as I was about to reach the junction where I cross to catch the bus, I stopped dead,
my eye drawn to a sly movement, a measured dash of brownish red.
I breathed in, the morning air cold in my lungs. Under the orange glow of a streetlight, a fox was drinking a cup of coffee.
He wasn’t holding it in his paws—as has been clearly established, I’m not insane—
but, rather, had dipped his head to the ground and was lapping from a Starbucks cup.
The fox sensed me watching, looked up and stared assertively into my eyes. “What of it?” he seemed to be saying. “A morning cup of coffee, big deal!”
He went back to his beverage. Perhaps he’d had a particularly late night out by the bins,
was finding it hard to get going on this cold, dark morning. I laughed out loud and walked on.
While I’d been off, Bob had told me to pop into the office anytime, or phone for a chat whenever I wanted.
Last week, a few days before my sick note was due to expire, I was still undecided as to whether to revisit the doctor and seek an extension,
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