Sunday, 31 March 2013


2 pm: an old-fashioned Sunday imposed but once a year; suburban streets are empty, almost silent, restless.

Friday, 29 March 2013


11 am: the long-absent sunshine comes and goes; just a few minutes, seconds even, at a time - rarely has it felt more precious.

Thursday, 28 March 2013


1 pm: the warm scent of white hyacinths, not quite snuffed out by chilled and stagnant air.

Wednesday, 27 March 2013


9.50 am: there's a small man outside in the street with a very large wooden reel of cable hoisted on his shoulder - disconcertingly low tech!

Tuesday, 26 March 2013


6.20 pm: lighter evenings and aching cold - these things don't go together; oh, unforgiving, out-of-kilter season!

Monday, 25 March 2013


3.30 pm: 'perishing cold', old people used to say when I was small; no surprise that the once-familiar phrase resurfaces today -   that's exactly how it feels.

Sunday, 24 March 2013


2 pm: when we call something eye-watering, it's often at least partly a metaphor, evoking emotional as much as physical sensation. Nothing metaphorical about today's cold.

Saturday, 23 March 2013


3.30 pm: snow like a child's toy 'snowstorm', fine and powdery. It looks so soft and gentle, but the wind chill and the interludes of icy sleet are not.

Friday, 22 March 2013


3.45 pm: the f has  allen o   the ca é - one piece missing and the rest becomes random and meaningless.

Wednesday, 20 March 2013


10.05 pm: the word 'embeddedness' embeds itself. Four shelving, rocky strata: in the chilly evening they reverberate.

Tuesday, 19 March 2013


3.40 pm: oh, the air, the light, so soft - so soft, you think the season's morphed - it's spring! But you know that soon, with a shiver, it will all shut down again. Until it doesn't.

Monday, 18 March 2013


2.20 pm: The room grows darker, then the keyboard disappears, then thunder, lightning, rain against the window: plunged into a dim, damp place.

Saturday, 16 March 2013


3.50 pm: a tantalising glimpse of fragile sunshine that brightens but barely warms; no sooner here than it's dodging clumps of cloud and preparing to dip behind the rooftops.

Friday, 15 March 2013


6.09 pm: jangling fiddles shake the radio; a car door slammed in the street shakes the window; the quietly grating sound of a yawn that becomes a sigh.

Thursday, 14 March 2013


2 pm: it's the season of shadows - look down and look around and there are all these flattened tree-prints stamped across the roads and footpaths, lawns and walls and doors.

Wednesday, 13 March 2013


1 pm: that cold, spiky stuff is falling from the sky again, but the air has grown warmer, thick and muddy - weather that jabs and at the same time stifles.

Tuesday, 12 March 2013


11 am: outside the florist's shop the potted red and yellow polyanthus spread their frilly velvet skirts, quivering and shivering in the sunshine and the icy wind.

Monday, 11 March 2013


6.20 am: the croaking of seagulls driven far inland by gales at sea; a heavy silence, then the muffled swish-swish-swish of a passing car.

Sunday, 10 March 2013


6 pm: something between hail and sleet taps insistently on the window; fingers of cold fumble their way inside, trace chilly patterns on the walls and ceiling of the darkening room.

Saturday, 9 March 2013


11.20 am (Radio 3 CD Review): the Handel excerpt is a coracle filled with notes bobbing on the waves, and behind it another and another, happy as a line of swimming ducklings.

Friday, 8 March 2013


3 pm: water pours off the edge of my umbrella; one shoulder, soaked, turns a darker shade of green and a dark, wet border creeps upwards from the hem of my coat, flaps heavily against my legs.

Thursday, 7 March 2013


6 am: it's raining on the red car parked beside the street-lamp and the lamp illuminates the droplets trickling from the shiny roof and down the windows.