There was website development, there was the housework backlog: there was the sun: so shiny it was causing a distraction before anyone came to make me give in to it.
Me and Little Granddaughter walked in the garden. Fat Beagle houseguest is bossed to join us, obliging even though she mispronounces his name. Owlfide sensibly rolls his fat back into the shade when the Nextdoor Chickens catch her eye. Heat makes her weary, eventually, so we lie on the sun lounger. She pokes a freckle on my arm.
'No, it's a freckle.'
'Oh. Okay.' She nods, rests her head on my shoulder.
I should be thinking about work but I'm thinking about holidays. Washing waves on the rotary line, makes noises of sails and flags. We lie on the sun chair, squint, let the blaze and company dictate.
All the little jobs stick together, jam up the day. All day I have one eye on the stupid clock. What is it that I meant to accomplish? Was it annoyance? This is Through The Looking Glass stuff, when the more I do the less achievement registers.
Fat Beagle whines. I take him out into the dark. The air is warm. The grass is cut neat. We wander over the squares of light that fall from the stairwell window. They are so much bigger than the panes they shine through.
Some light bounces, some shimmers through.
This is the same day I have run through the fast shallows of an incoming tide, chased by a paddling Dog. I forgot to put a parking ticket in my car, and didn't get fined. I had an ice cream. At home there was roasted chicken. This is the same day we watch the sun set: globe of smelted gold slips behind leafing trees, fizzles colour like a bicarb bath bomb.