The warmth of the sun on my neck at this early hour together with the deep, dark shadows of my hand on the writing pad augurs well for hopes that my new blind date, July, is going to offer more promised pleasures than her predecessor, June.
The feeling in the air is that of a summer’s beach day: those longed for, selfish moments on empty sands before the holiday season allows others to share this pleasure. Delicious moments of loneliness when I can talk to myself without worried looks coming my way. The written summer of the printed page that is in fact unattainable.
The delight of such thoughts on a morning such as this nearly paralyses me. Rather than packing a hamper and setting off to this vision of the ocean’s edge I feel the urge to remain as still as possible in case any slight movement should upset the balance of emotion. This moment of the day is clock stopping.