I wake up to darkness, sleepy faces, and cold winds. I go home to darkness, empty streets, and many thoughts.
In between, there is flour. And sugar. And butter. Lots of each. I spend my time in front of scales. Or plates waiting to be filled. I hear the ovens going off. I smell like chocolate. And I dream of eating something savoury.
I live in a house where we turn the lights on at night, we eat out of chipped Bernardaud dinnerware, we drink cheap red wine, we set the washing machine to the highest temperature, we have full cupboards and an empty fridge.
But somehow, it couldn’t feel more perfect than it is.