…he sat by his window and looked out over the waste lots, hoping to recognise something, or place himself on his night’s travels. But as usual what could be seen from the window bore no resemblance to what was endured on the ground.
I can feel the chill from here.
Reminds me of damp Welsh chapels with those scratchy embroidered wool kneelers. Or the missionary thatched churches we get out here, festooned with Union Jacks and gecko shit all over the walls. Oppressively chilly even in the African heat.
East Sussex, definitely chilly.
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