The flower box has white Christmas decorations stuck to it. I wonder from which neighbour it has blown over.
The cold, it is the third day of bone chilling fog, its wispiness cutting through the layers of clothing.
It settles on everything, frozen, freezing, painting the trees and bushes a seasonal white.
I close the balcony door, The cold is getting to me, waking me up, clearing the cobwebs of my mind. Cobwebs, hmm, that Christmas decoration on the flower box — it’s a frost covered cobweb.