It’s winter.
It’s cold, in our old house in the country.
Getting out of bed every morning is like leaping into the English Channel.
In the summer, Lizzie would happily paint in our garage – pictures of flowers, set against the peeling, multi-paned window in the back wall.
Now she’s painting in the conservatory, home of our over-weight cat Rosie. It’s freezing in there too.
Lizzie’s the most gung-ho painter I’ve ever met. Usually, nothing will stop her. She’d have been a good World War painter. Although, obviously, it’s probably a good thing she wasn’t.
Now Lizzie says she’s actually too cold to paint. The first time I’ve ever heard her say anything like that. It’s moments like these I realise how hard things are for her.
P. D. Clifton 
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