Things have been quiet for a time in the House of Ginger. We have been staying close to the house, watching the rosehips ripen to red, watching the swallows gather and by night stalking in moonlight beneath the bats, or sitting by the house where moths dance in the windowlight and bats come too.
There have been a few evenings of fires, just small ones. Woodsmoke and warmth.
And at last She has started work on I Am Cat. Just a few tentative drawings to begin, and She has too much to do in time for work to go to a book fair.
By day we catch the last of the warmth of summer, lying curled in the garden in patches where the sun still throws down her shawl for us to sleep on. In the evening, as the dark comes in, we gather on the sofa and wait for the strike of the match. And all the time we watch.