In the morning, when I return to bed with my morning cup of tea, the winter sun illuminates the bed sheet and the white duvet so that they resemble a barrren, snowy and mountainous landscape.
One of those flying angels, engaged in spreading a wholesome message with the help of a trumpet, hangs in the window of the garden shop in Chapel Place. It is some sort of antique made of metal and painted in white enamel, but now the paint is peeling. One rusty wing makes this angel especially poignant.
Walking up Grove Avenue towards the Grove I catch sight, for a moment only, of some bird of prey with a smaller bird noisily protesting in its claws. There is no time to identify either bird, but I don't recal ever seeing a raptor of any sort in Tunbridge Wells. Not a beautiful sight but a dramatic one.