"I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library." Jorge Luis Borges
The walk to the bus stop is short but the wait for the bus is long. It has been held up again. The fences have been blown away and there is sheep on the road. The bus trundles into the village, fighting against storms that hurl rage and wind unparalleled in strength. I begin to wonder if I should just let nature win. If I have lost this battle and should return home where it safe and warm and familiar, I do not know what this weather will turn into. My hair is whipped around my face, but through it I see the bus. It is dark and I hold my torch onto the road in front of me. There are no street lights near me and I don’t want the bus to splash me as it passes by.
On board I squeeze down the aisle fattened like a Christmas bird, but with layers of jumpers, jackets and scarves. I'm undressing as I descend through layers of red weather beaten faces, I want to reach the back, I want two seats together to place my things. Seated at the back, wet throughout I rummage in my bag to find something that will make it better. I find my book. I'm not in the bus anymore. I'm on an island or reading about an amazing person. I am finding criminals or moving from poor house to big house. I am not on the bus, I am with my book, and that, quite frankly, is my kind of paradise.