Tuesday September 7, 2004
Another beautiful sunny day. There’s been a delicious breeze over the fens from the North Sea, which carries a danger with it, for the sun is still fierce enough to burn while you’re thinking how pleasant and cool it is to be outside.
A fortnight remains yet before the first day of autumn, when the skids are firmly lashed under the day and we slide inexorably into long evenings, and dark mornings. I’m already sleeping later and going to bed earlier. This morning I woke at my usual time, between five and five-thirty, peered at the clock, looked toward the window, decided it was too dark to get up and so snuggled down for another couple of hours. And, leaving my provisioning trip until the early evening, I was obliged to switch the car headlights on long before I got home. There’s a good way to go before winter arrives but the advance guard is tapping at the door.
“I don’t want the summer to end,” said Graham, completely out of the blue.
“I thought you preferred the colder weather.”
“Well, yes, I do. But this year I don’t want it. Perhaps I’m getting old.”
“Well, less young.”
“Perhaps we ought to go and live in Spain, then, after all. Or the South of France.”
“How’s about Portugal?”
“Spanish is much easier to learn than Portuguese, and we already have a smattering of French.”
“Alright what? That we should go and live in Spain?”
“Don’t be silly. You hate paella.”
“Ah. That settles it, then.”