Walk through the park – I’ve missed it since I moved. Gardeners are scraping the leaves together on the black soil below the yellow trees. Through the bushes, the dark breath of  November. The time of year I love best in the park, empty and silent. Coming through the gate, the blush of the red plastic poppy wreaths on the beige stone War Memorial make me tearful. Above one wreath, an amber spider hangs in the air, all of its legs working, weaving its life among and around the names of the dead…

The sun comes out.  The morning birds can’t help trying out little songs even though it’s freezing out there.  In the bitter snap, older men are wearing fur-lined hats with ear muffs like Russian dissidents. Sweet blue smoke from a chimney – Bath people like their wood fires. A waitress from one of the cafes passes me in the street, one hand clutching a chiffon scarf at her neck. She breathes hello.  

The Big Issue seller pops up, his mouth gaping in front of me; I wait for him to start his mantra but he’s oddly transfixed and lets me pass.There’s a queue in the coffee bar, the tables still crowded with the early workers. The barista riding high. ‘And for you, madam, cappuccino?’  He’s working fast, banging out the dregs, several little glasses under the spouts. The sun is peaking the shadows in the thin street.  The steam noise stops – a moment of bliss. The barista teases a grumpy regular.  ‘No cakes?’  The man shakes his head. A skateboarder sails past. Vivaldi struggles above the noise from the crowded tables.         

Downstairs is empty so I get the sofa. My aches ease. Happiness.