The English Market

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"To market, to market to buy a penny bun,

Home again, home again, market is done."

Home

When the winds have been raging on relentlessly for days, and your dog playing endlessly with all the noise she could muster, waking up at ten forty a.m. with the only sound you can hear the ambient rush of blood through your body, it seems a strange slice of peace.

Downstairs, the only noises are socked footsteps gliding across to grab the milk from the fridge (a gasp of suction is heard as it opens and closes) and then the cereal rattling down into the thick porcelain bowl. After the munching has died down, and the spoon clinks to the bottom for the final time, it is kind of shocking. There is no sound left.

The dog curled up beside looks a small bit like a polar bear, just for a moment. The only sign that she is still alive is the rise and fall of her sleeping stomach. She doesn't snore, nor does she fidget or flutter. Except once, when she stretches out her toes and groans softly to her dream world.

Only much later does it become apparent that a small pendulum has been knocking back and forth. Previously, it had melted into the silence.

Anna x

Taken with the Nikon Coolpix L110