Frost on the rear window of Peter's car lies close to the glass like layers of silver leaves. It seems an affront to scrape them away.
After this morning's frost and brightness, which lasted until lunchtime, a cold drizzle sets in. The air smells good, the thin mist is seasoned with wood smoke.
In the Grove, there is a spot where people have taken to dumping their discarded Christmas trees. It used to be an unofficial dump for garden waste, but the Council put a stop to that last year. The Christmas tree-dumpers have persisted however. A congregation of different shapes and sizes has now gathered, one,upright in its plastic pot still fit for an angel and baubles, a sad silver ribbon remaining, others lying higgledy-piggledy on their sides. One small tree has survived from a previous year, where it took root after someone had planted it.