The seemingly endless summers of my childhood have made a welcome return. Maybe not the very same ones, but there are moments when a particular combination of sensations takes me clearly back in time. I have found that the station signage on my round trip of life, as predicated by Shakespeare, has become clearer on the return trip. Sitting in cool shadows on a seething silent summer’s day reminds me of those careless too short days which passed without my noticing. Like a puff of dust in the distance as a visitor’s car descends below the horizon taking with it names and details but leaving a taste, the flavour. Sherbet, warm,long defunct fizzy drinks; nothing was chilled, I don’t remember ice early on. I don’t remember cool early on and I somehow wish I had never got to hear of it. Ice brought pleasure. Cold drinks with ice cubes were memorable. Cool was a curse …unless you were Sting. I was too noisy on the outward leg of the journey to enter cool. But now I’m quiet and unconcerned. This summer’s day is not cool but, where I sit cutting open a ripe yellow dribbling peach, it is and I am.