I am sitting in the shed and for the first time I am writing here. There’s a stern breeze and the usual twitter of birds in the trees nearby and I can see a little bit of dandelion fluff caught on the cover of the barbeque and it is interesting to watch it move and twist in the breeze. I am tempted to free it, but it is more interesting sitting here watching it being bent to and fro. Perhaps it will free itself. The sound of the breeze is so similar to the sound of waves washing up on a beach, it is only the lack of distinct regularity which distinguishes it. I wonder if that is just a quirk of human hearing; if a dog hears it quite distinctly, or a cat, or a gull. It has such a fluid sound to it, the leaves rustling are like the shifting of sand or pebbles. Then it stops. Then it begins again and I think about what it might be like to be sitting here writing with the open sea viewable through my window instead of my meagre flowers, the grass, the nettles and dandelions in the corner which I’m loathe to dig up but I probably will at some point anyway. I think about how colour can make us feel cold or warm, how a grey sea churning with white swell would make me feel cosy from the safety of my little shed, especially if I couldn’t hear the roar of the water, because the darkness and the wildness of it I would imagine in contrast to my warmth and comfort. I feel safe, protected, even here with the stable door open and a breeze running through the shed and the buzz of car engines and the occasional voice from people making use of their back gardens. It is quiet in a way I have desired, quiet and anonymous. I can sit and observe and think and if I want to I can close all the doors and slip down under the counter and no one, not a single person besides me, will know I am here.