The roses aren’t pink and they aren’t red or even orange but a mixture of the three and a colour nothing man-made can match. I pick four for the lounge. Their fragrance fills the room and each time I enter I stop to drink in their perfume and beauty.
To share time with fellow writer, Anita Loughrey. We talk and talk and talk. ‘What time is it?’ I eventually ask. ‘Ten past midnight,’ she tells me and we are amazed how the time has passed.
An elderly lady looks as if she has been abandoned outside the station. Her taxi hasn’t turned up. I use my mobile to call one for her and notice that beneath her coat she is has a long blue skirt and, at her neck, a cross and chain. She is a nun. I tell her the taxi driver is called Nick, but not Old Nick. She laughs, thanks me and tells me I am growing wings. Later my back itches. I can feel my wings-buds.