The house of white hair: my mother sits in the sunshine, cigarette smoke curling around her head; I sit in my pyjamas, on my second coffee, in need of a silver fox shave.
Paint flecks off the guesthouse’s walls; my brother has bought a large can of white paint to freshen things up. Dead flies in the white-tiled reception, warmed up by the morning sun, await my broom.
White streaked cats play in the ferns. The swimming pool is clean but too cold for a dip; white bubbles froth after the chlorine is poured in.
Proceed with kindness and firmness.