We’re sitting in our garden, it’s small but it’s ours. The grass is several shades of luscious and the lavender is blossoming a couple of feet away. Everywhere has a voluptuous smell of summer blooming, of unfurled leaves; flowers boasting, eager to attract the pollinators.
The air has a slight chill, but only slight. I have on a hoody and my bare feet are tucked under my legs. On the floor is a fridge-chilled Coors and the most lackadaisical music is swirling around.
Above the shed, which is in need of paint, the sky spreads as though stretching to the reach the countries, islands, far away. Gentle, white clouds bypass our ‘burb thousands of meters above us, gazing down at us, but looking forwards to the next place on their journey.
This is my favourite time of the year - it’s 8pm and the sun is still high, it won’t bid us farewell for another couple of hours. It will be back by 4:30a.m.
If I could, for ever, live in England in June I would be the happiest person ever. Especially if it’s always Friday night :-)
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