I’m showering with the window open again, despite the chill.
It’s one of those summer mornings where the sun hasn’t got going yet. The kind of day that saw me as a child stood at a bus stop for a day out dressed in shorts and a jumper in a strange mix of optimism and realism. Cold legs shivering but with the desperate hope that later I’d be glad.
There’s a sheep staring at me while I shower, eyes meeting mine as I contemplate the brightness on the hill. Of course it probably can’t even see me – it’s eyes are looking across half a field and a garden to see me through the crack of a small window. But nonetheless it does seem to stare right at me.
Eyes closed while washing my hair I’m considering how far away the sheep is – perhaps a hundred yards? But I can’t visualise a yard. All I can think of is a little rhyme my dad must have taught me: “a metre measures three foot three, it’s longer than a yard you see”. Not really all that helpful as I can’t visualise a metre either.
Shampoo rinsed off I peer blearily at the window. The sheep has moved away and just a patch of blank hillside remains.
I am disproportionately disappointed.