Pond Man taps the oak jamb over his head as he passes through and ducks his head —six inches too low but he likes the ceremony, it keeps him alert. Down, down his chestnut thatch and then the house enfolds him. Quiet as a grave. Still as a church. As mossy as a river bank in spring. All these things. For Pond Man lives as though he were outdoors; or the indoors lives with him as though she were outside.

Moss along the window sill, a narrow slip of green, Pond Man leans down to scrape her off with this fingers; deposits her inside a small terracotta pot and presses her down. Bit of gardening done. Pond Man whistles and lifts the kettle from the hob. Shakes her to check the water, turns on the tap. Lets the water spill over his two fingers — cold, colder --lifts up the spout to meet the tap; his metal sump filling.

Pond Man looks through his mullion windows towards the sea. Grey today, cooing doves, and Pond Man coos back; pushes hard at the latch and passes his head through. Coos again and lifts his hand to catch the wind - colder - and behind him the kettle blows her shrill tune.