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Last night, went north on the Edg. Rd., beyond the flyover. To a Persian restaurant, my friend was positioned where she could see the bread being made, spun out then introduced to an oven in the corner with a lid like a dustbin, and pulled out baked after a fleeting interval.

The wind was gusting and at one point it blew open the inner and outer door, carrying the scented smoke from the oven across the room, lifting the napkins and pulling down the final remaining Christmas decoration.

There were paintings of scenes from Iran on the walls, desert villages painted directly onto chipboard, the medium worked well, the grainy processed wood as landscape.

Walking back, the gale continued.