What first hits her is the smell of hot food coming from the market stalls that line the main street in town. The high street in question is like a giant vein or a worm. One of those plump worms you see after heavy downfall, wiggling its way along the garden path, edging closer and closer to the beak of a spying bird waiting in the wings of the spitting skies above. She can’t see the stalls on account of the mist, but the scent of hot, greasy food beckons her forward like a giant finger. The further she walks, the more sounds she hears in the sea of grey, from the chatter of invisible people to the banging and crashing of the market traders as they rearrange their cherished stock. She once bought a hat from this market. It was emblazoned with a hammer and sickle. In her mind, she wore it to make a statement. She wasn’t quite sure what the statement was, but she was sure it was one worth stating. Her mother had been disgusted and had demanded she threw it away. Thinking about it now, she can’t remember who had won. Frowning, she ponders the murky memory and promptly trips on the edge of the kerb. Stumbling into the cold clouds, the ghostly apparitions of strangers reach out to her. Clutching at her arms, they stop her from falling, but her legs have no strength in them and she wobbles like jelly into a display of suitcases. Knocking them over, the angered cries of the stall owner cut through the mist and clap her face, but she doesn’t hang around. Ducking and diving the best she can, her nose follows the smell of the food, and with each footstep, the cold in her bones eases until she’s as toasty as the giddy beat of her heart.