Richmond Park, leaves doused in gold. Indecisive clouds. Joni in my ears on the stride through St James’, past the field of wild daisies and the grey squirrels nibbling petals between the blades. Waking early to grey light pouring through the blinds, the clatter of rain on the sill. Morning swims, front crawl a waltz of its own: one, two, three, one two, three. Afterwards, yogurt and oats at the kitchen table, tired legs folded under me. Risotto, salted and studded with gleaming green peas – memories of Italy. Blue jeans and brogues. Miso soup of a rainy evening, piled high with coriander leaf and piquant red chillies. Chatting across the transatlantic wires with Ash – friends like her come few and far between. A Friday Malaysian supper club, the room draped in fairy lights and butter laced with heat. Sitting by the river with cardboard boxes of Moroccan salad balanced on our respective knees, the notes of a guitarist lingering on the breeze. Grandparents. Sisters.