A strange summer indeed.

 

It really isn't often that I'm lost for words, as you might well imagine, in fact I now find I'm full of them. I must have been storing them up, or something and now they are desperate to be set free. But let me explain. Firstly, there's nothing more satisfying than signing your own book. Blowing my trumpet you might think to yourself, but then that's the beauty of age, you don't care. Anyway, a very nice lady called Brenda had sent me a message via my Facebook page, 'Last Tango in Carcassonne' Could she pick up a copy, and furthermore, would I mind signing it? Would I mind... is she kidding? It's one of life's thrills. I never know quite what to write, mostly it's 'I hope you enjoy the tale!', does that sound lame? I took awhile to find something to write with, surprisingly physically writing becomes more and more difficult and laboured. To use a Biro is slovenly, to fiddle with ink and pen always ends in smudges so I settled on a roller ball. 

Brenda promised to push the required amount of money through my letterbox, meanwhile I had left a copy of the book on a neighbours step. If this sounds a complicated arrangement it isn't as the neighbour has a deeper doorstep than mine thus avoiding any Tom, Dick or Harry snaffling the parcel or, God forbid, a hapless pooch lifting its leg whilst its owner gazes in a gormless way at their phone screen in blissful ignorance. All potential disasters were averted however, Brenda got her book and I got a sale and even more amazingly a 'thank you card'. Are there no boundaries to flattering an author? Answer: No.

People have been kind enough to enquire as to my whereabouts. I would love to say I have been gadding about in a carefree manner through the hot summer days in an impossibly exclusive location, only available to the privileged few, but I would be lying, more's the pity...

Truth is I haven't been anywhere else since January 9th this year. If ever a date was etched in my mind it is that one. Who would have known that a three night visit to a Cornish Landmark Trust property in the height of winter would have kept me from going insane? The Reverend Hawker, an eccentric Anglican priest and poet once resided there. I was obviously in good company although I'm quite convinced we were not alone there... I cannot recall ever being in one place for so long in my entire life since that eventful date. Those with a tendency to spend their days roaming may well understand the frustration. But, on the other hand, I really do think that if some of those had reined in their desire (and perceived entitlements) to continue travelling and socialising as though the pandemic was merely an inconvenience that didn't apply to them, then perhaps the bloody restrictions that are currently in place could have been avoided? Just saying...

I'm feeling rather optimistic, excited even, (despite no holiday) because I finally got round to tapping out a few words which may quite possibly turn into a second novel. Who knows or dares imagine what this may contain? 

But that is the absolute beauty of stretching your imagination as far as you dare. Just because you aren't busy plane hopping or constantly unpacking a suitcase doesn't restrict your ability to travel to wherever your mind cares to wander. In my case yesterday I was dining at a very old and exclusive establishment alongside the Seine in Paris whilst staying at a hotel overlooking the Presidential gardens. Later on today I may encounter a famous French rock star of the 70's caught lying languidly on his bed amongst a tangle of once pristine linen sheets.

Who needs to ever leave home when this sort of excitement is on offer?