Lost: daydreams.

I’m blaming the summer sunshine for a period of writing inactivity. At least a combination of summer sunshine and unfortunate wardrobe choices. My shorts, which I have been wearing a lot, are pocketless and so my trusty little notebook has been left, neglected, at home. It’s not that my daydreams have lulled, it’s just that they’ve been drifting off into the heady summer air uncaptured.

Which is a shame, because I’m pretty sure I’ve been thinking some good things. We’ll never know, I suppose.

What can I remember from this mediterranean summer we’ve been having? A summer picnic by a river; a cornfield behind, the searing sun beating down upon our backs, the crisp tear of fresh bread, a sun ripened tomato, thin slices of saucisson glistening almost translucent in the heat. Things have been happening in the garden: the runner beans climbing the bannisters outside, picking peas, cutting the first courgettes, gathering large handfuls of leaves and herbs, conjuring meals from a few potatoes and what is outside. The garlic ending its seven month residence and drying in the sun. Foraging from in and around bristol, the heady fug of elderflower pollen and the sticky juice of tree ripened cherries on my fingers.

Eating out and eating in, trying new flavours and making my first jam: the summer so far has been fertile for the mind, but what a pity I haven’t captured it for good purpose. Stupid shorts.