Surrounded by paintings, all with stories, and Gills clothes, in a proper double bed, in Rectory street, Halesworth, on the coldest February night, east wind from Siberia.
One painting, Edwardian? of a young blond haired girl carry faggots of hazel on a woodland path, Peter had found in bombed out London, where the oil was striped away from the more valuable frame, and he got it for a fiver and rode back with it in a taxi.
Here I am again with Gill, this time no Peter, taking refuge, while a stranger, for air bnb is in my home. Separated from the dogs, in an adult bed, with stuff packed around me, safe in Gills home.