21 January 2021
Our windows are draughty. The storm is seeping in through invisible gaps, making the blinds shiver and the architraves moan like tired achey bones. We drown it out by listening to an old bbc radio comedy until we fall asleep, less worried about the front of the house blowing off and being carried away out to sea than we were during the storm at Christmas, when we’d only just moved in.
Little channels of cold night air sliver in and over the bed and into my subconscious. My dreams whirl together like the leaves trapped and cavorting in the corner of our grimy patio. Something about how windy our wedding day was, but it’s not our wedding at all, it’s just our garden. Another about queuing up at the food court staple Spud U Like, except it’s outdoors, and is also possibly the jacket potato van we’d visit very occasionally during my art foundation year at Loughborough.
A whistling noise rattles from the chimney breast and I wake up, instantly baffled and infuriated by the name Spud U Like. What is it meant to mean? Is it a pun? It’s structured like wordplay but it isn’t, is it? What would it even be a play on?