'Isla,' she says with a wide grin. 'Come in, come in.'
The sweet smell of heating welcomes me. It's warm inside. As we pass the lounge entryway, I see the wood-consuming oven is terminated. The radiators are warm to the touch. In the kitchen, the Rolling Stones work out from an old versatile CD player.
'How the hell are you?' she asks, turning down the music, putting the pot onto the little oven. She opens cabinets, brings down mugs. The gas murmurs lavender blue; rolls lie on the round wire rack. She lifts four onto a gold-edged plate. 'Gingerbread,' she says.
'Interesting how they call it bread,' I say. 'It's not bread by any means, right?'
'One of life's extraordinary secrets.' She puts her hands to her hips and flickers, and I need to say thanks to her for being so herself, need to
