enjoyed it all so much.
But what captures my imagination here is the sheer joy and love. What a moment. I was sent these pictures by my sister Debs only this week and I can't actually remember ever having seen them before, so the surprise was joy in itself. In fact I was actually thinking about the Gorebridge setting because one of my earliest memories was of a bitter winter and snow drifts so tall I had to sit on my dad's shoulders. There is something magical about that too - and I wish I had a picture of it. But we 'can't have everything,' as Jen Webb once said to me, 'where would we put it all?' I have been writing a lot recently - and actually composing a new album, even though Fisherrow isn't properly out. I even have a title for it, though it's under wraps for now. It's now February but the future still isn't what it was, in the meantime I wrote this little prose poem about then. It is followed by a self-refelcting song which I recorded for a Portslade Railway Roots gig. I guess this life during lockdown is asking us to reflect. Memory is milk frozen in the bottle while it sits on the doorstep, waiting for you to come home from the nightshift; your pit bag and empty flask on the kitchen floor; striking a match over the gas under the kettle; lighting a Kensitas with the flame, we saved the coupons for those books; kindling and coal for setting the fire. I haven't seen snow this year, I live in the soft south, watching pictures of it sweeping across the north; each flutter bringing another story, another memory, all snowmen melt in the end.