The winter sun is blinding if you walk in its path. There's nothing soft or sentimental with a winter sun; its beauty is as tart as a lemon. How cleanly it separates light and shade. With newer, taller buildings on our low level-street, there's less sun all-round, but especially so in winter, when even a southern exposure means shadows shortly after noon. Over on the northern side, there's a point towards the end of the day, when the sun, reflected in the window of a house on the next block, sends its rays diagonally across backyards and lands them in our kitchen. Its precision is a wonder - the rest of the room darkening, and just this fragment of light hitting cutting board, bottles, tea tin, wall. Ten, fifteen minutes, and it's gone.
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