A gentle but biting wind is drifting
across the sand towards the grey-timbered summer houses. Stomach
tightening with anticipation, she begins to empty the rucksack.
Behind her, he can just make out a picture frame, green twine,
plastic sheeting and a small mirror. A black gull squawks in the
shallows.
Our inability to navigate in time is
disconcerting. If a musician finds themself lost in the structure of
a tune they will ask their bandmates, "where are we?",
never "when are we?" But we might also answer "where
is the house?" with "about half an hour away". We
prefer translation.
The Citroën took the bend too quickly
to avoid the water that lay glibly on the tarmac between the flooded
fields. Hedgerow suddenly merged with spray. When it emerged it was
backgrounded by the lights of a small airstrip. The driver sighed;
then he growled. The substitute had already arrived.
No comments:
Post a Comment