“Night after night, the cat and I sit outside on the terrace, gazing at the long shadows across the valley. I sip a glass of Sauvignon from a five-litre box that should last me a fortnight but probably won’t, and wonder if she remembers London.
All those cranky neighbourhood cats she used to flirt with; the stream of human visitors to the house in East Dulwich; the sounds of revving engines and police sirens and hip-hop. It all seems so far away from here, where the only sounds are the whirring of a billion crickets, the shrieking of the owls and – every so often – the drowsy hum of a bourdon buzzing home from the wisteria.”
C’est La Folie, p352