There's a rap on the door. It's Caroline the architect - I'm still in my orrery. I exit the van via the rear door and hand her a rainbow baton we found earlier in the Orangery - left over from a wedding at the weekend. The tailgate hisses as it rises. I feel like Major Tom exiting an air lock.
Time lapse my books and you might see a murmuration: perching on the shelves then fluttering to the surface of the desk in my study, some splitting off to settle on my coffee table and others finding their final roost at my bedside. Some books aren’t read at all.