I'm sitting in the sun, wearing Christian Dior sunglasses and working on my non-existent Caucasian tan. Reading, thinking of a story I can conjure for you people; my four followers. When an apple falls from the tree. And three wasps angrily disperse from the windfall. Two stopping to engage in some kind of mating ritual, or wage war with one another. I can' tell. I watch for a moment, as they break, and then refocus my concentration. Causing a smile, to the simple pleasures in life, to leak from my lips. Then I bring a tan leather moccasin down on top of them. Silencing the commotion.
The story I think of, I don't really like to tell. Although I often amuse myself by telling twisted variations of it to strangers. It is from a time way before any inclination to live in Bristol ever existed, and way before I understood true happiness. It's a story that, I shall tell in due course.
I am interrupted from my book.Thoughts. Again. By my mother. Who offers a tumbler, and a bottle of Perrier, on ice, along with freshly baked pastries, and red summer berries. And I continue to read into chapter twenty seven, whilst life continues around me.