I walk out of the door to my block of flats. I am only going to Tesco, but feeling romantic.
The street is drenched in the remnants of snow; bright, harsh sunlight glinting off luminescent puddles. Birmingham looks, for a moment, like a harbour town – bustling people, fresh fruit and vegetables roling out into the street – and I tilt my head into the sunlight to smile at it. I pass about 20 engagement ring shops – we are living in the Jewellery Quarter, after all – and I confess I do stop for a moment or two, the ring finger on my left hand tingling slightly.
Later, we go to the huge Tesco in Five Ways. An L-shaped monstrosity in which finding the tills is often impossible. There is a Polish aisle, a gluten free aisle, an aisle for Indian cooking, with huge bags of gram flour nestling amongst bags of brightly coloured powder.
Black children, white children, Indian children scurry around the shop while a man in a cowboy hat prowls the aisles slowly. A yuppy couple in fashionable office wear inspect the jams and spreads, while a crowd of people stop and look out of the wide windows as it starts snowing.
MindReader cuddles me in the gluten-free aisle before we pay and battle the city traffic.
Birmingham is, undoubtedly, my home.
