From Ingrained: the Making of a Craftsman by Callum Robinson, which I'm enjoying a lot. The phrase of the title isn't meant to be critical, but "their football" makes me take it as a disoriented, bewildered thought: I run my business and design and build furniture in my workshop (things I love)... I'm not sure what people do to spend their time.
Marisa returns and, having spread our meager profits around the high street, we nibble muffins and drink good coffee. The rest of the afternoon passes quietly. There are a few kind words, and a few really quite extreme peepers, but most must be enjoying their Sunday lunches or their football, or whatever it is that people do on weekends. I am just about to lower the blind and pull over the storm shutters, to head outside for the first time in close to seven hours, when a lady hurries past the window. Tentatively, she opens the door and leans in. "Are you still open?" she asks. "I'm sorry it's so late." She strikes me as kindly and friendly, if a little anxious.
She will not hold my gaze for long. It's a trait I know I share, and immediately I feel a connection. "Of course" I say, and welcome her inside.
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