In what has been a summer so far characterised largely by rain, another weekend in which we were lucky enough to have some sun. The last weekend in May. On Friday, after work, a few of us had headed to the park, hazy with sunshine, sat drinking and talking, making daisy chains so long they wrapped seven times round my wrist. As it got dark heading south to Clapham to watch an Afro-Cuban band perform in a pub. Walking through residential streets with roses tumbling over brickwork, five of us and a bike. Warm air, and the orange-black city sky, and that wonderful light headed feeling that comes with a Friday night in summer. A pub courtyard, saxophones and white wine, a tiny sliver of glass in my foot which remained there until Sunday, niggling. Running, hopelessly, for last tube. Nightbuses home, shouting goodbyes into the darkness.
On the Saturday morning, bundling presents and clothes into a bag, dashing to the train, out of the city for my sister's birthday weekend. From the train window, hawthorn frothing in the hedgerows like David Hockney paintings. The Norfolk garden, lilacs in bloom, reflecting onto the still surface of the pond, full of shimmying tadpoles below. Forget-me-nots under the fruit trees, long grass, lying in the sun with S, both of us paralysed with inactivity. Dad doing the calligraphy on a mustard fancy dress costume. An evening barbecue, asparagus from the garden, skewers of tomatoes, jumpers on in the absence of sun. A birthday breakfast outdoors, brioche french toast, berries. Unwrapping of presents.