A dusting of frost whitens the roof tiles: the wheelie bin’s iced shut again. Vapour trails slice the haze. I imagine excited passengers in flight to warm seas and warmer blue skies than mine.
I wear fingerless gloves as I type, slippered feet resting on a hot water bottle, body wreathed in layers: vest, blankets, jumpers – a scarf.
But the sun shines brilliant and golden on the old gas fire, brightening photographs of my smiling son and a Valentine’s Day card. Along with the blankets I’m wreathed in valuables – that card, those photos.
I don’t envy those holiday makers and their week on a beach.
I’d rather be here than anywhere.