I am still hanging on to the memory of summer’s final glance over her shoulder as she heartlessly moves on to another lover which sad moment leaves me free to start writing again. Mindful of too many summers seasoned with damp disappointment, the traditional Englishman’s inheritance, means that I am hopelessly vulnerable to the warmth of the sun on the back of my neck through my office window and that, on feeling this sensation, I am drawn from my chair to the garden, to the fields, to wherever I can be in summer…..without having to travel….I want summer on my doorstep. Cooking, reading, swimming, sleeping, drinking, eating, talking, taking pictures ….but not writing. And so, with summer’s passing I have set my virtual feather duster to sweeping the cobwebs from my cerebral keyboard, which may take some time, as the true culprit for my silence has not been summer but my own delicious seasonal laziness from which morass I am loathe to extricate myself. ..