Now that the days are getting shorter I can’t break myself of the habit of sipping single male whisky sours in the back garden sat on my blue plastic chair while looking up at the clouds, blue sky, stars or just black. Spiders try to make webs on the chair while I’m inside doing whatever but I don’t let them last long. The dog runs in and out. Digs up his rawhides to rebury them in another corner, then changes his mind and puts them back where they were. He’s lost patience now and whines to go back in to avoid the stress of it all.

The neighbour and her mother snigger about the single girl next door. They tell the hyperactive boy to go out, not to cry about stepping on legos if he can’t look where he’s going, and to dry off before he goes in. The demented in the old people’s home across the alley scream bloody murder because they don’t want to be made to eat, don’t want to go to bed, and don’t want to be where they are. Occasionally people walk back and forth from the takeaway round the corner arguing about what they got or who gets what.

A full month behind on my book deadline and I still can’t get myself back on track. The angst is dissipated, but the thinking doesn’t stop. Probably it’s too many bad movies with too many impossible alternative universes to imagine. Could just be the uncharacteristic weather and the wasted time in the car. I’ve finally pulled up all the vines and cut the two foot long grass down to two inches. Surprised to see the heather is still alive and thriving and the strawberries dried up on the plant uneaten by the snails. Bees buzz through the grass apparently angry that I’ve culled the vines they were visiting. Whisky sours are an art though and Venus is constantly looking down.