A wet Sunday. The streets in our little village are empty. Like me everyone is probably curled up in front of the fire. No, not everyone. At the top of our house I hear the Australian anthem playing in the Rugby World Cup on a TV.
Our house, like most of the other houses in Menerbes, is right on the street. When I’m in the lounge room I can hear anyone walk by. The bottom panes of our front windows are covered in opaque adhesive paper for privacy. There are also shutters we can close on the inside.
I went for a walk around the streets just now. All the windows and doors are snugly shuttered. I’m intensely aware that people are within arms reach just on the other side.
Old map makers used to draw griffins and dragons at the sides of their charts to denote the unexplored territory, the feared unknown. I don’t suspect those mythical creatures of lurking behind the closed windows and door I pass but there is something exciting and mysterious about not knowing what I’d find if I peeked through the door or flicked back a curtain. Anything is a possibility.
Writing is like that.