I love the summer. Last night, we spent our evening with a friend – a rare enough delight in itself, these days. We sat in her garden and talked about the past year; about grieving and about mutual friends as well as wildflower gardening and ponds. We talked through sunset and twilight until the first bats appeared, and then we walked back in the late evening with a bag of yellow rattle seeds in my pocket (exchanged for a jar of redcurrant jelly) – as the remnants of red faded in the West. As we passed over the railway bridge, looking westwards, the signals, at green, were the brightest objects – shining along the lines towards us. Behind us to the east, a couple of distant helicopters were flying silently in formation; but above our heads the sky was tinted from an inky Paynes Grey through the darkest purples as it reached the afterglow. It would be too lazy to describe the texture of the sky as velvet. It seemed more as if we were gazing into the dark wing of a moth – iridescent and deep, as if turning your head a little might cause it to flash with blue .
These city evenings are incredibly special and rare. With the temperature still above 2oC the air was thick with the perfume of weed, jasmine and hot tarmac; an atmosphere made for moths and young people; a nightfall capable of inspiring rash promises and rash acts. By eleven, after walking a mile across town, we reached the allotment to close the polytunnel. We were probably the oldest people on the streets by at least three decades. For no particular reason I asked Madame whether she ever felt old. “No” she said – “Do you?”. “No”.