The atmosphere in the market, especially on a weekday, never fails to cheer. There's a permanent soundtrack, from both the stall that sells vintage rock and blues LPs, and the many buskers that line the streets, even when it's not busy. Somebody is currently fiddling Irish jigs outside my window, and this chap, strumming rockabilly riffs on his double bass, is a particular delight:
After a whole month we still haven't fully unpacked, and as I type this, Andy's mantling (if that is indeed the converse of dismantling) my new desk. So yesterday, as respite from the endless boxes, I decided to make the most of the sunshine and really have a go at the terrace (my new obsession). I absolutely adore it - it's like sitting in your own little secret garden mere seconds away from the bustle of the grimy metropolis. Yesterday a butterfly actually fluttered by as I wielded my tiny eau de nil watering can (I'll definitely need a bigger one if I continue to buy plants at my current rate!), transporting me to even more pretentious heights of ecstasy.