Today is orange. The sky is a solid grey, a canvas clear through to the horizon of green houses and technicolor orange trees; and in the corner, the sun glows dully, a smouldering twilight at noon. The day is mine, with the heater on and the window open wide enough a sliver for the rain to be the perfect accompaniment to the day’s calm progress through housekeeping, working, studying. A brown orange ladybird appears on the cover of my novel, dragging its rearmost left leg, eight black spots on each folded wing. Ultimtately, it the wind that roars, snagging in the trees, not the rain. The balcony door swings open, wavers for some minutes, then slams neatly shut. The day is a photograph.