What you can't hear is the sea, wind and hail outside, or the fire inside (or the bum notes I was making earlier).
What you can't see is the dog close by, and my grin.
What you can't smell, or taste, is a good tomato and garlic sauce cooking for my pasta.
Those are enormous violets, and little wild roses from a huge hedge colony (no, I wouldn't normally pick wild flowers but I can't tell you about the synchronicity), grown outside in the West Cornwall micro-climate, in November.
Today, a few pages and an outline under my belt – this is The Book I've been not writing for years – and oh just a couple of poems.
However, I seem to have mislaid my intention to find a glass of wine. Oh and wait – I've mislaid the wine. Oh well.
And yes indeed, I know how very fortunate and blessed I am... I don't ever take that for granted.
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