His voice over the phone feels like a close hug.
The daffodils had passed the weeks partying, chattering brightly, but they're worn out now; they droop over each other and hang brown and queasy over the borders of their plot.
The week starts out with a strong assertion of summer - blasts of dry heat, insistent sunshine. On the last couple of days though the heat collapses, and the wind and coolness of early spring ease back in, as if to soothe a fever.
It's as if I'm on a rock-strewn slope; my feet keep slipping and my hands scramble for a stable hold.
Into the muddle of the everyday comes music from centuries ago, aching and solemn.
Halfway to the second floor I pause by the window. Out of a tangle of branches a bird swoops out and seems to hang for a few moments motionless, before finally pushing against the wind and continuing on its course.
I wish to tiptoe along on the lightness of the evening. Cool air and cautious joy mingle.