By Laura Yates
THE squirrel bounds down the trunk of a contented oak. I watch as she hops across the lawn to excavate yet another pit which she (hopefully) left stocked with a store of acorns some months earlier. Again, Alberta, the aptly named Abyssinian cat from over the way, observed the delicious, preoccupied opportunity from her stoop in the long grass.
I wonder why Alberta waits when she knows (and she really must know) that she won’t end this waiting game with an attack.
A ringing phone disturbs my thoughts. I suspect it is Sarah with another offer of work. She has done a sterling job of finding me positions; offers from offices a short walk from home, from Dubai, from Boston, from – anywhere. How sought after my pedigree skills are. None of these roles have quite suited, so perhaps Sarah has come back with an even more significant situation.
I check the number on the display and note not Sarah’s digits, but those of my doctor. Somewhere in my peripheral vision I see the shadow of some prey bird, striking down from the heavens, squirrel bound.
© Laura Yates 2016