This morning thin snow.

I set traps for a mouse in the kitchen baited with half a stale brussel sprout. The last residue of Christmas.

I wear my big boots and slide to work. On the tube I read my notebook's entry for the 2nd. It says...

A huge flower of oil on the tarmac by the station
a psychedelia of copper and purple
everything else: the newsagents, the cafe on the corner
a smudgy tonal study blurred back by the puddles.
A few new year commuters bent like spent matches in the rain.

I decide I hate the psychedelia reference.