The day is unspeakably wonderful: blue skied and intricately white crisped and even the pebbles on the beach are frozen into a wide lacy bedspread.
I am poorly and spend my days by the stove, drinking tea, reading from a musty, broken-spined, leather bound book and, from time to time, taking up my old tin whistle and playing a lament for aching limbs and runny nose.
Even so, I cannot resist the lure of such a perfect morning and so I strip on the doorstep and walk out onto the frozen beach, spreading my arms to greet the brilliant sun for a moment t and then, laughing until I cough, I nip back into the warm room, dress quickly and put the kettle on again.
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