One morning, we woke up to lights through the wooden blinds barely covering never-ending windows. Coffee got made. And we sat on the steps overlooking the garden. Early signs of autumn, drawn to the earth in the shape of dew that made our feet wet as we walked to the apple tree.
Right now, there is a snowstorm happening behind my window. Not unlike London turned into a snow-dome. I used to love them. And really, not much has changed since.
But if there is one thing I know for sure, it’s that by the end of the month, trees will be coated in a snow of blossoms.
I’ve told you about Baity before. Well, mostly about that absolutely adorable guy with the glasses and his Greek iced coffee.
But, really, this place is the dimestore diamond of Chelsea.
[A cider and apple cake, not unlike a tatin tart]
There was that night made of champagne, flickering candles, crisps and smoked salmon sandwiches, the last of the foie gras smothered onto big fat chunky pieces of baguette, an endless game of trivial pursuit where – as it turned out – the one person who refused to play (my father, apparently stuck to his mots croisés) became the one who knew all the answers, our joker as we called him whenever we got clueless about a question.
It’s the light, a cold blue grey. It’s the window, adorned with pearls. It’s the wind, carrying the scent of moss and ocean.
And just like you don’t even have to think to know you’ve fallen deep-hard in love, I didn’t have to look through the open window to know we’d been surrounded by cotton overnight.