I wish Autumn would bloody well hurry up. There, I said it. I want days on end of cold, rain, mist, or any form of precipitation really. Bring it on, please. I have a big new coat to wear. I want to hibernate til it hurts.
Anything is better than this bright warm greyness we are currently 'enjoying'. I can't sleep in the Summer; hence why I am wide awake and writing at 7.35am. That strange acidic tiredness that happens when you sleep out of time? When your ribs feel like glass tubes and your eyes sting? That's my Summer.
Don't get me wrong, it's been good, if strangely stillborn: I haven't actually done an awful lot, apart from writing. Which I guess is a good thing. Yesterday I went to Bradford-on-Avon by myself and drank loads of coffee and finished 'Love In The Time Of Cholera', and took pictures of this beautiful old barn (see above).
I suppose the main feature of my Summer has been loneliness. No, that's the wrong word. Alone-ness? At least, nobody's been there to share it with me; I wish somebody had been. Most of my friends have paired off with someone by now. I can't see how that's going to happen for me anytime soon.
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