Duke Ellington plays on a breezy evening as I lay the roll of butter sheet (on which I’ve scribbled various sketches upon drafted line-drawings). His music, that flavour of rare Jazz, transports me to a verandah overlooking an open garden with sprawling lawns and tall trees that stand around the clearing. Dim lamps light the verandah and I have something cool running down my throat with the slightest tint of magic in it. I can smell potatoes turning gold in hot oil and the crackle of raw meat as it roasts on a pan.
Freshly mowed grass and the dew settling upon it on a winter night is a sight I long to see in these plateaus, away from the North where I spent my nomadic childhood… (To be continued)