The heat has broken here in the south. It is still lovely and warm, even hot at times, but the breezes have become the slightest bit chillier again, and the rain-which disappeared for a few long, muggy weeks-has returned, just a few times. It still doesn’t feel like the England that I have come to know, but it feels less and less like I accidentally got on a plane to a place much further south.
And now it’s nearly August and this summer has been so full and busy and fast and yet wonderfully slow at the same time, and I have so many things I want to record somewhere/anywhere and yet I haven’t felt the urge to do it yet. The days are full of work work work and well, the evenings are for soaking up every last ray of sunshine, having drinks with friends and cooking outside and just living.
Friday night was a crazy night where through multiple mishaps and miscommunications I missed the last train home. I was stuck, and faced with waiting for a night bus at 3 in the morning, or staying in a hotel in Brighton, but I managed to get a hold of my friend Alice at one in the morning and we proceeded to spend the rest of the night in the disgustingly sweaty exquisitiness of an underground African beats dance night. After a very few hours’ sleep, I dragged myself home, exhausted, on Saturday morning (looking only vaguely walk-of-shamey, I like to think), and slept most of the day and night. Today, Sunday, was delightfully long and slow, with some reading and baking and tv, for good measure.
This is, obviously, not a regular occurrence, nor a picture of my general weekend. But all of it was good, and memorable. But this summer….man, it’s like anything could happen, you know? And it’s not yet over.