I look at my To-Do-List for the day and how I wish it was already a Done-List. Then it could become waste paper - binned for recycling - but would it return as another list, as part of a novel, poetry, a love letter?
I add spuds to my list and dream of what could've been.
I pass a man mumbling to himself. I realise these days we're unaware if such mutterers are talking to themselves or merely chatting away on a hands-free mobile. I catch a brief snippet of "I love you" as I pass.
If he's not on the phone I'm equal parts flattered and concerned!
The air is so still it feels like it's about to pounce.
We are the insects trapped in amber; stuck to everything we touch, destined to be found in a million years by scientists who will marvel at our clothing, a flimsy pair of shorts and a pillow stuck to our heads!
The sun is not quite yet bullying the sky and allows a few light clouds to pass by. Many people seem to be walking their dogs earlier. Presumably to save their padded paws from the upcoming, unrelenting heat of the pavement. No hot dog stands today on the streets of Northampton.
Autumn gently taps at Summer's door; precocious, tiny blackberries,ripening to the colour of coal. Yet most blush red, embarrassed at their confidantes haste. I watch a blackbird hop from side to side, impatient for the harvest, dancing in earnest to the berry Gods and me.
The early morning sky hosts rain clouds like some people host unpopular guests at a house party. It's ushered them to a corner of the heavens where no doubt they're huddled together around a single bottle of Blue Nun awkwardly trying to strike up a conversation in the kitchen.
I look up to see a passenger plane so far overhead in the deepest blue of the sky that it appears to make no sound. The tiniest speck of silver in an otherwise uncrowded sky; at most a host to many untold tales, punctuating contrails, a jet stream of consciousness passing me by.
We all glug a mug
And we all sup a cup,
The difference is plain to see.
We change it at will
And here's the key,
We sip, ambidextrously.
At my back door with a cuppa I briefly exchange glances with next doors cat, home from a night on the tiles to sleep. I fondly recall such youthful indiscretions and raise a mug in appreciation to a fellow bon viveur.
Then I notice cat poo on my lawn and I swear the cat smiled.
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