The relentless march of the spiders goes on. Now I watch as one works its way up and down the curtain, exercising its long legs. This morning I could have sworn I heard a tiny sound like the click of knitting needles and I imagined the spiders working, persistent grandmothers, their webs falling away from them in loops of droopy stitches.
Five years ago yesterday, London was reeling from unthinkable things, and I remember sitting in a sprawling Oxford garden and watching the spiders spin endless webs and threads between the the legs of the green plastic chairs, as though they were also trying to make sense of things, trying to stitch England back together where it had split at the seams.
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