Weather like this has been so long in coming that it's sensory overload. I'm bombarded by snapshot memories of other summers. Lolling around on the playing fields at school, in pre-exam hysteria, throwing grass cuttings at each other. Pints of cold cider and packets of crisps at riverside pubs. Cherry-picking season on the farm, swaying high up in the trees on tall ladders. Then strawberries. Everything stained red, and wasps stupid on sugar.
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Holidays. Greek islands. Bongling goat bells, the lazy slap of flipflops, and the buzz of a moped. Oregano and figs and salty skin. As soon as I get home, I head for the Abbey Orchard. Shoes and socks off, lying under a tree, lost in the bright green canopy of leaves swaying above me. I'm not on holiday. But it'll do for today.
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