Soho and Raval with Richard Scott

Listen now (60 min) | It’s cold, and I am still ill, and I find myself in bed with the shutters drawn, the fingers of crisp mediterranean sunlight creeping through the thin louvres of wood matched by the fingers of the rude wind that is trying to peel them back, to slam open the shutters and the windows, to fill the room with a bracing cold air. I shudder at it. Leave me alone. The wind is like this all day; powerful and gusty. I hear a terracotta pot scrape across some distant balcony before it falls 2, 4, 5 storeys to the pavement below and shatters. I hope there are no passing dogs caught in the calamity.

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