I have finally succumbed to a winter cold and have been banished to bed, despite having a list of things to complete as long as my arm, which could be a problem, especially with Christmas now so soon on the horizon. With pounding head aches, continual sneezing and unrelenting runny noses there are few things to enjoy about having a cold and being confined to bed. However, one benefit I found today has come in the form of having the time to get stuck into a good book, and another is that it has put me in a position whereby I have been able to appreciate the view from my bedroom window far more intimately than I have in the past.
The book has been The Dirty Life by Kristin Kimball – but more on this later in the week.
Through the window I see a mix of deciduous trees, swaying gently in the wind, naked and dormant as they wait for the warmth of spring, which is still months away in the future. The sky is grey and occasionally this backdrop is interrupted by a wood pigeon flying past, a different kind of grey in an otherwise unchanging backdrop. Out of sight I hear call ducks on the pond, some of the noisiest and yet most petite waterfowl that you will come across. There is a hint of orange as I look out towards the street lights and a few Christmas lights twinkling in the distance. Further away, I can just about hear cars whooshing by on the road. It is a very quiet time of year and yet there is a reassuring verisimilitude to the scene I look at through my bedroom window. A pleasant sense of continuity, in the midst of the uncertainty the country seems to have plunged into in 2016.