and fresh linen for Dad. Jabbed up for the hols and looking for new premises. The will is there but the way is enmisted, the path lost in taiga shadows. Where is my golden, lakeside dacha, curtains raised to the window sills to thwart lurking assassins? I’ll have to settle for the semi in Sunnymead, arcane texts shed-scribbled in the gaps between car-ferrying to athletics meets. There’s paradise there, for those wise enough to see it.
