Nescio (12)

NESCIO (12)

The priestess was late back.

She parked her case in the porch and took out her head torch. She fumbled for the door-key: a hint of melancholy in her expression.

The priestess had travelled to Switzerland. (There was much of the UK she could no longer stand. The people - the crowds - so silly and risible: hideous miserable. She was certain it contributed to her latent depression.)

She had spent a week in Basel, best described as 'just wonderful'.

She had wandered through forests of wild flowers and firs, supped good coffee on terraces: sunny verandahs.

She'd eaten German noodles and wurst and a cheesecake with rhubarb (the latter bought fresh one morning from a market in Freiburg).

She'd procured her winter wardrobe at sale price; clothes that were (now) cheap, well made and (extremely) nice.

She'd spent time with a man she knew intimately. (She thrived on his wit, his intelligence, his rude informality.)

Actually, now she was home, she was feeling pissed off and alone.