What was that at my elbow? I look up and then, for a brief moment, try to determine the difference between a draught and a breeze: the latter should be fresh; the former, foreboding and stale. I associate breezes with summer holidays and warm tiles. On the contrary, a draught’s place is alone, penetrating a cold room or nurturing mould. If one is inclined to believe in the paranormal, then draughts are the bedside manner of ghosts.

An hour-and-a-half ago, I sat down to write.

Nothing happened and nothing is happening. The cat sits next to me, but she cannot be blamed for the breeze nor the draught. Heavy rain shatters the window. I cannot blame the cat for my silent-writing either, but as I am sad, I put my nose into her fur. That is where the happiness lies. She puts out her paw to me, claws outstretched. We listen to Gombert and there are no more draughts to be felt penetrating this warm room.