Sometimes I sit alone in the corner of my garden on a summer evening drinking a stiff g&t and thinking I’m having the most tremendous epiphany about life. I must go and write this down I say to myself. I never do.
I wait in the very furthest corner of the garden for the shade to reach me and drive me back into the house.
I try not to think about my youth slipping away, that every long summer evening is as precious as a Fabergé egg. To be cherished. Waste none of them. But that’s not possible.
I must grasp it. I say.
I must grasp it all.