One day I go out for my evening walk at f8, according to my light meter. I wander for a while among the houses, then cut down a path which leads to open ground. A stream in a concrete culvert runs through the estate, and the developers have left a broad area of grass along either side, with occasional trees and hawthorn bushes, so that the whole forms a sort of miniature valley where people stroll or walk their dogs, and children ride their bikes.
I turn on to the path beside the stream—and stop in my tracks.
There, just above the horizon, oozing dark crimson into flesh-coloured cloud—a giant inflamed eye.
For the first time since the darkness, I have come face to face with the sun.
I look at the sun. The sun looks at me. Something indescribable passes between us.
It is a first parley between old, old enemies. It is coming across a former lover suddenly, in the street, years after they broke your heart. It is sitting down to negotiate with terrorists, looking across the table into the eyes of a killer, knowing that the two of you are locked in this thing together, and some modus vivendi must be found.
I stand on the path by the stream. I extend my hand to the horizon.
“Hello, sun,” I say.