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.