Within the railings that enclose the side of King Charles the Martyr is a deceased umbrella. Its spokes protrude in all direction from its shattered web of black nylon.
As I walk briskly through the damp air - it is dripping rather than raining - I can detect no beautiful thing for the moment to post when I get home. But home now, sitting at my desk, I feel warm and comforted as I sip my tea. Beside me is the screen, to which I can transfer these impressions, a further source of comfort.