Walking to Havant Railway Station, leaving Hanna Reitsch in the kitchen ...

A few weeks ago, I caught an early morning train for London - I'd stayed with my mum and dad the night before, and watched Poirot on ITV 3 - as always, I admired Chief Inspector Japp's mac, the 1930s Art Deco cocktail cabinets, the slim figure of the murderess - 

I'd eaten my breakfast glancing at photographs of relatives - there was my brother, there was my Aunty Dot,  with her fierce hair - there was my clever niece, Lucille, now living in East Berlin - 

The washing machine was just starting to roar in the kitchen - Anne said it sounded like a small aircraft, perhaps a Fi 156 Storch, I thought - Hanna Reitsch might be talking to my mum, drinking Nescafé -

When I walked through the small streets to the railway station, the quiet houses were still full of sleep - faces were hidden in the clouds - telephone wires reached out into living rooms - 

I walked through the park, past the cricket pavilion - the side screens glimmered in the pale light - wild girls gathered here every evening, smoking, joshing their boys - 

The Station Cafe in the precinct had just opened its doors - a jet shone in the sky - the train was on time -