Last night I dreamt I was back in Bradgate Park in the green, green fields with the trees in blossom and the heather sprouting and the sun shining brightly. The scent of Rosemary and Majoram was in my nostrils; bushes and shrubs were growing in abundance and the stream flowed gently along. I lay back in the warm grass in the heat even though part of my partly-conscious mind told me it was bleak winter with the Thames frozen over, a sheen of thick ice over the surface and bitterly, icy cold, cold as the grave in the streets outside the tower.
I awake with a start and feel that icy blast as I climb out of bed and pour freshly delivered hot water to wash me. I am lonely and still chilled at breakfast so I eat very little. Eggs and bread and a little sweet white wine.
I go to the parlour and
