from: sunday speculation

Someone in the block is cooking onions, my kitchen door is open to the still-cold air, my back garden is a shaded patio from October to March. It starts getting sunlight in the evening around this time of year, but it is only for a few minutes, highlighting the deep moss that has taken the place of the grassy area. Strange Evil, a book I read when a teenager, it featured the smell of onions which, although nice at first, grew stronger and stronger until nothing else could be smelt at all, and the god/devil figure of a giant baby appeared. That memory just popped into my brain then, yet there are countless other times I don't think of that when I smell onions, as recently as yesterday when I fried some to put in the gravy, to have with my illegal imported British sausages. My feet are cold, I am wearing sandals in lieu of slippers, not because all the socks are in the wash, and still there is no word from him. Time to go bake some cakes.