It is hot. The heat is like a living thing, something old and ill that has crawled on top of us to die. They sky is grey and the grass is burning. In England it is so rarely hot that when it is, we go to pieces. We throng the pubs in our shorts and our socks and we broil ourselves to the colour of ham. I am trapped inside, this searing hot laptop burning my bare legs, listening to the children, who appear to be solar powered. This weekend I went away and when I returned there was a plastic squirrel in the garden. The children had thrown it at the window, the one that is already cracked and stained with egg. The squirrel now sits in the living room, another offering from the street.
In weather like this I dream of streams, the whispering water insidious as women. I want to lie by a river and have a lightly-oiled young lovely feed me greengages and figs as I watch lions get fucked by lambs and read strange poetry to the bees and later, under lanterns and a grinning moon, slide naked into the water and overpower the pike. As it is, I will have to make do with a Lemonade Sparkler and a cold bath.