Have done the maths: There will be no babies in April 2014. It is so fucking hot.
To divert my attention from the pack of peas in the freezer I thought of Clint Eastwood. Good old Clinty. Like the guy. Those eyes.That smoke. Blondie. Yes. poor Blondie – being dragged through the desert. No water. His tormentor’s saving grace that (being Mexican) he was charming. And had such a dirty laugh. Yes, so here I am: Sleepless in Southampton. Fully observant how the body cools itself. Tries to cool itself. Honestly: I live two minutes (max), on foot, from the coast and there is no breeze. None whatsoever. Even the seagulls have gone quiet.
Which reminds me, apropos of nothing, of one of our cats. Yes, good old Bouncer. He was huge. Even when he was tiny. Hence his name. Most stupid cat I have ever known. Affectionate to the point of suffocating. He liked to sun himself. In half shade underneath a Clematis or a big bush of Lavatera. Then he fell off the flesh. From more than 8 kg to 3.5. Skin cancer. Irreparable. As I keep saying: His mother, my son’s first cat, had about 27 lives, Bouncer had 18, all used up, and then they died. Within a few months of each other. Both nine years old. Am beginning to sound like John. Who has promised to leave me Albert within the confines of his last will and testament.