A teenager pulls down a book of the shelf. "It's by three priests..." he laughs, throwing the book aside. He throws it onto a table of other books. Its position upsets the square lines of the other, laid out, books on the table.
In the train, on the table next to me, a daughter, perhaps in her twenties, does impressions of other family members for her parents. After a pause her mother sighs and says "I wish I was a Grandmother".
The high water of the Wye, rushing underneath a 600 year old bridge: there are strange currents and eddys forming patterns on the surface. The odd shapes, like brush strokes, are made by the water squeezing around the pillars of the bridge, and meeting itself.
The laurel hedge shakes in the wind, each leaf almost torn from the branches. The young bamboo bows. The television aerial shakes and I imagine the picture breaking up. This side of the window all I can hear is the tap, tap, tap of fingers on a keyboard.
The golden Buddha is lit by a single candle. We chant his name, Amitabha, over four notes. There are two of us. Her voice is smoother, and higher than mine. In front of the Buddha are three blue coffee cups with gold rims, from a market in France. They are each full of water: this morning's offering. The empty white jug, heart shaped, next to them, was the first thing we bought together.