Not a bit

Two and a half hours of sunlight remaining when you got home. A glorious day, balmy by the standards of Welsh spring. Like seals on rocks, people sunning their skin in the grassy spaces that line the Taff.

At No. 7 the sound of neighbours having dinner and chatting in their backyards. Barbecue aroma. The two ginger cats gone March-hare crazy: bolting in and out of the garden, hide-and-seek under the clothes horse and bike tarpaulin.

Does any of this matter? Not a bit. But it’s all you can think of to avoid the gnawing discomfort that followed you home from work: a sense that the recent project has been disowned by its commissioners.

But that too doesn’t matter. Not a bit.

 

Almost too clear

someone’s conversation drifts in

over the garden wall

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