Three nights in the office with only an undersized settee to sleep on had taken their toll. Another of the trials of middle-age, she thought bitterly, folding the rug she had used for makeshift bedding and plumping up the cushion that had served as a pillow. Huge feathers of snow floating lazily past her window attracted her attention, and she walked towards the curtains, gazing at the scene that now met her eyes and found herself unexpectedly moved by it. The grey slate of the nearby tenement roofs was hidden under meticulously tailored white blankets, and the cobbled streets and wynds looked flawless, immaculate in their new clothes. She felt a sudden overpowering desire to feel the snow herself, under her own feet, before it was robbed of its pristine allure by the city’s traffic and churned into mud-coloured slush. It was only five o’clock; time enough for a short expedition, time enough to enjoy the fragile scene before it was destroyed. Hurriedly putting on her coat and boots, she set off up St Leonard’s lane, exhilarated by the crisp air, experimenting as she walked with different footprints, leaving first a flat-footed trail and then a pigeon-toed one.
What do You think about Dying Of The Light (2011)?
