Here, a small town on the north-east side of lake Geneva (lac Leman) mid November. Exactly in the middle and minutes past midday.
The blue skies have just greyed across a little. Enough to feel a difference sitting on this terrace there is now a hint of snow in the breeze around my ears. My hands, badly fed by cold at best blood, are already losing colour as I type this on my iPhone 4. Incredible the leaps in technology and what we can access and do.
But before I take steps toward another tangent: slow as it is, typing this short anecdote in the hope that you find it anecdotal my lunch, a very nice lasagna simple and not as sweet as my own is rapidly cooling toward the temperature of my hands. I don’t care. I shouldn’t be eating it. It’s not good for me. “If you can’t grow it don eat it” arguments that we don’t need cooked food for real health. Yet it is good. It is very nice. The second glass of nice red wine, this time a Syrah, chosen by the patron at my request, warms my chilling ears. Sparrows without fear visit me for food. How can I not share? I spread bread over my table to tempt them to rest and they circle the invitation showing more trepidation than I thought.