I am writing this thousands of miles up where the sun always shines and the clouds are a grey feather duvet or a pristine field of snow.
I am in between lives.
The house I left in a hurry where I didn’t have time to put fresh sheets on the bed to welcome us home again at midnight in a week’s time, but where I did manage to empty the fridge into a bursting plastic bag for my mum.
And the other house, that is a bit of mine, where two firm flat beds wrapped in a sheet make one matrimoniale and where the red fridge waits for me to fill it and un-fill it with treasures from my market.
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