The mountains and the beetroots
When I cycled to work this morning the air felt like the mountains. Maybe once it gets cold and dry enough the smog drops out of the air or something (unlikely). Either way, the sky was blue, the sun was low and golden and blinding. The roads were full of cyclists breathing steam and I didn’t trust any patches of glittering moisture I saw not to be ice. I got to work early; I just didn’t want to squander those hours of sunlight when the night comes on so early. By 6pm it can feel like it’s always been dark and always will be.
I’ve made a lot of travel plans for the next few months, a lot for me anyway. France, New York, and New York again. Before travel opened back up I promised myself that when it did I would attack it and not take it for granted again, and I think I’m doing alright at that. Last weekend was the stag do we had to postpone about three times as the pandemic rumbled on. It was worth the wait, everybody was very unwell on Sunday — we are a strange culture.
Also playing on my mind: must cook. My cupboard is full of onions and potatoes. My fridge contains fresh tomatoes, yellow bell peppers, mandarins, apples, kale, some wilting beetroots (what the hell do I do with you), and copious amounts of boxed up couscous with roasted cauliflower.