old, grass, bus

A friend of Heidi's comes over for a meal. After several glasses of wine, she asks me when I was born. "1933", I say. "You're very old," she says.

The smell of cut grass is much quoted as a favourite thing. It is no less attractive for that, in the Grove, this afternoon, under an overcast sky.

An empty, red double-decker bus stands at the bus stop its forward door open, the driver's seat empty. Next to the door, printed in white letters is its name "Louise".