I am sitting in the living room, surrounded by soft yellow light and ceiling-high shelves of books. This is a room that bombards the senses. The musty smell of the books merges with the aroma of a kitchen full of broccoli quiche and chocolate shortbread. This is familiarity for me. It is comfort.
Chamber music plays on the record player, a sad, slow melody perfect for a warm summer's night.
I close my eyes and hear the violin and sitar play together, separating, harmonizing, the sound waves blending like rings of raindrops on a lake. I am reading a book about the celebrated ballet pair Nureyev and Fonteyn, and am absorbed in the world of grace and elegance, of black and white pictures. My hair, long enough to reach my waist, is still wet from a shower. I have curled my legs up into my chair like a small child, perching sideways, my head resting on my knees. My mother sits in a chair near the south-facing window with brown reading glasses at the tip of her nose.