The middle of a winter’s day was just perfect, Richard thought, as he took his usual position beneath the old fig tree, set at a perfect angle to drink in the ocean-yacht bobbing harbour. He wended his way to the bench from his nearby studio as many days as possible. He put the leash on Tojo, and out they went, the two inseparables.
The way was made immeasurably easier now that the council has seen fit to bow to community pressure and construct the extra crossing over the outward bound traffic. How on earth they thought a crossing on just the inward bound lanes would suffice was beyond him. Who on earth would want to stay marooned on the traffic island?
A cough hacked through his chest and Tojo’s moist nose pressed against his cheekbone, tail wagging. Richard paid as little heed as possible to the canker growing within him.