On Holding the Flux

Having missed the welcome sunny spell of early April, my body was bamboozled by the cold. As I walked through the well-loved but all-too-familiar postcode of BS5, waving to the boozehounds skinning up outside the bookies, smiling at the DnB blaring from a hatchback, I felt the sensory markers of Ghana recede like a dream into the morning, growing steadily harder to distinguish beneath an overcoat of Same Old.