Bwyd Irie

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Jerk chicken on the barbie; warm evening sunshine, and Coltrane emanating from the studio stereo: a glass of red completing the picture of perfection that is home, tonight. I repeat my self-pinching comment: I couldn't have imagined I'd live one day in this idyll when I was growing up in Winson Street; but I had the need for this kind of life, and somehow, with luck, sweat and a leg-up from Jane's dad when it mattered; not to mention bloody-mindedness on our part; we got here and made it our own. Our own. Yr Achub: Refuge.

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