In the gap between editing jobs, I went last Friday to a small café in the retail park near us. I went for a change of scene, with a book and a notepad, to put in an afternoon on the paper I’m giving in Berlin at the end of June. Reading placenames, names of scholars cited, titles of their work, I slipped back.

To the little bakery with a few stools that did coffee round the corner from us on Gilesgate, where I brought the Old Norse readers sometimes – for a change of scene – before starting off for Denmark. To places like Nelles or Baresso or Brød in Odense, filled with intonation that came alive again through the Scandinavian wordforms.

This was not there, I worked out, counting off all that was different – no candles, the grime on the floor, the absence of interior black – but that hardly mattered because the sense of being enveloped by the ideas was just the same as it was. Book, and notepad, and coffee.

I spent a lot of time in those spots before the contract, and after it ended, especially; and, curiously, I missed that genuinely. I could imagine them all; and I thought of an office, the real place of work, that was stacked with books and notepads but never my own, just a space with a name by the door to be replaced with the same efficiency as that with which the keys were demanded back. Imagination stopped, then.