That recent spell of good weather has me out of the house.
Nearly nine at night. Still warm, blue sky. Beautiful.
I'm walking along the canal that runs behind our flat. Water roars through each lock gate as I pass, cars ghost by on the far side, the birds are still singing, but the bowlers in the bowling club have all retired to the bar.
There's a breeze. Slight but welcome.
The reason I'm walking is because we can't open the windows properly at home or the cats will get out, and then get kidnapped by aliens or pirates or whoever else J reckons might be passing.
It's new-build. Well, newish. Very well insulated. Which is great in the winter but come summer there are days and nights when the heat just arrives and sits on you. Like a clammy backside pressing you deep into the sofa. At worst, it can feel like you're trapped between the sun's bumcheeks. [1]
In short, sometimes you just need to get out.
Up on the towpath people are walking their dogs. Women are running (more women than men these days, I keep noticing) and swans are sunning themselves. From here the world looks green. I've never really noticed those trees above the houses. Do they run along the line of the Antonine Wall? No, that's a bit further up. Up near the turkey man's house. [2]
Up there, too, a new house is being built. The scaffolding is up. Looks like it might be three storeys. A bit modern, I've heard. A mini grand design maybe.
Passing it I feel a small pang of jealousy. I always wanted to build my own home, something special. In the days when I used to buy a lottery ticket in amongst all the plans I made about how I'd spend the £3m I'd win [3] - setting up my own publishing house, shopping at Ligne Roset instead of Ikea, buying Kelloggs instead of supermarket brand; that kind of thing - commissioning an architect to build me something was top of the list.
Not going to happen, is it? There comes a time when you realise all those little daydreams that sustain you are just that. They're never going to come true. Realising that is like a little death. A little death of hope.
What a morbid thought, I think to myself. On such a beautiful night. Where has that come from? I realise it's because it feels like summer and summer makes me think of my dad. Of working on the building sites alongside him all those years ago, mixing cement, carrying bricks, standing on rusty nails and having to go to outpatients for a tetanus.
That's the other thing I wanted to buy with my lottery winnings. A new car for my dad. That never happened either. Too late now anyway.
The sun is still shining. But suddenly I seem to be in shadow.
[1] Where did that image come from? Maybe I've got heat stroke.
[2] I've not mentioned the turkey man before? I probably should. Remind me later. December maybe?
[3] Because I worked it out that it wouldn't be worth winning anything less than that.
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