The Sunday road home from the beach is one that I have only navigated. Never driven, as I do not own a coupe. However I now find myself driving here, although alone; My partner driving the continent, whilst I relive cruises that we have taken. The stereo is playing music that, whilst in my collection, I have never listened too. And I'm enjoying the summer evening, ripping through high granite rock laden road, and winding, dusky, coastal lanes.
Come Monday, the road I find myself driving is the one I have driven many a time. 79.56 miles. Leaning to that place that people go to do that activity one assumes is called work, the same activity I do, merely to fill time. The same happens on Tuesday. And sadly on both days, nothing of true significance happens.
On Wednesday, I have guests. For whom I conjure Tomato Terrine, and summer leaf salad whilst we recline in the vegetable garden, under the heavy branches of the apple trees, drinking Pinot Grigio. Conversing of the summers events, or lack there of, and where the four months have gone. By Thursday the conversation has turned to love, and the scene is now a coastal walk. One I have taken many times, and find quite a bore; But what kind of host would have guest from the city and not boast the fragile, red cliff, coastline.
Late Friday evening, it is brought to my attention that I have no offering, gift or otherwise for the event that I am to attend the following eve. And subsequently spend much of the night thinking. It's hard to by for a twenty one year old millionaire who has everything. Eventually under the strain of the week, and my two extremely taxing days of hard graft, I arrange a lunch date for Saturday, retire, and decide Laurent Pierre will have to suffice.