Low life | 10 January 2013

Waiting at a country bus stop in a downpour. Not sure if I’ve just missed one. No raincoat. No phone signal. Two o’clock in the afternoon and already too dark to write a will. No wonder everyone that can do leaves the country at this time of the year. There isn’t a bus shelter so I insinuate myself backwards into the hedge. A passing car sends a spray of rainwater up my legs. A motionless row of Devons, fetlock-deep in mud beside the five-bar gate opposite, contemplate me miserably.

I try to remember what sunshine is like. I close my eyes and try to imagine hot sun on my face. I can’t. It’s impossible. A month ago I stepped off a plane in Antigua. Here, at least, I have success recalling the shock of the heat radiating from the tarmac as we marched from the plane to the arrivals terminal. I remembered, too, the bright and efficient young woman who met us and expedited our transfer.