Cotton wool mist

It wasn't that misty when I drove up to Real Work today. It was just the kind of misty that makes you feel like you didn't wash the sleepy dust out of your eyes properly. In Winter it's still dark when I take the metal-box-full-of-people-pretending-not-to-know-each-other to my top floor perch in The Ivory Tower at Real Work.

I'm not a fan of Winter, as you know, but I do like watching the sun rise out of my big windows that look all the way to the mountains on the other side, all alone with only my music, or silence, before the others arrive squwaking and preening. I'm spoilt, I know. In Winter, dawn often dresses herself in the oranges and pinks of a child's box of crayons. She throws colours on the clouds in great swarthes (sp?). Very pretty indeed.

This morning, though, the sleepy dust mist had an orgy while I caught the metal box up from ground floor to my high-up perch and, by the time I'd reached my big window, had reproduced and filled up outside completely. It was like being in a jar packed in cotton wool. It licked damply at the window and I changed that simile in my head. I was a little pea, left to germinate between two soggy bits of cotton wool, like we did when we were children, marvelling at the wonder of plants growing.

That sense of marvel, that hope to grow into something delightful, I think I'll keep that with me for the week.