The gardens of his estate attracted a plethora of visitors from Bracknell’s surrounding forests. A variety of wildlife that enriched the space; some fluttering or buzzing amongst flowers, others darting their way beneath the underbrush. The song of birds filled the afternoon and it was nice to take the time to enjoy it.
Some animal disturbed a rose bush, likely a fox, and a startled avian winged from its nest which an indignant shriek.
“Ah, what species was that, Mycroft?” He inquired, not removing his attention from the dossier in hand. The entrepreneurial function featuring the BBI, BBB and the Oliver Wyman group was this week and it was good to be prepared for the personalities in attendance. Especially so if he was to report his findings to the man currently peering through binoculars.
Winter mornings are made of steel; they have a metallic taste and sharp edges. On a Wednesday in January, at seven in the morning, it’s plain to see that the world was not made for Man, and definitely not for his comfort or pleasure.
– Olga Tokarczuk, Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead
