Friday October 31st #halloween
31 October. Morning slow to take shape, the light a pale smear above the roofs. The house cold round the edges; you grind coffee, fill the French press, let the steam lift. That smell—burnt caramel and earth—still enough to bring a kind of grace. You step out to Sainsbury’s, collar up, pavement slick with leaves. Lola’s gruel collected—£3.29 less of zero—and left waiting back at the house. Duty done, you carry only the quiet of it as you head toward town. Braine Road half-asleep: van doors, bin lids, a dog impatient somewhere. The air smells of slow decay—leaves, damp brick, a hint of diesel. Everything simmering down for winter, resigned, graceful in retreat. North Street folds into York Road, traffic grumbling, drizzle needling the pavement. Then Joseph C Roberts, Independent Family Funeral Director. Glass so polished it returns the sky, clouds smeared like fingerprints of light. A hearse idles, limousine behind, engines breathing their quiet smoke. Inside, lilies, mute...