When I leave on the Sunday the canopies of are still red, orange, intact. Come Friday the only remnantce of this is scatted across the drive, the road, the windshield of a Black VW Polo.
And I'm told that I look more European than before, and I feel pale. And I contemplate a spray tan, the sun bed, but decide otherwise. And I'm looking for a new three piece and the wind is slamming rain against the sash windows, and I'm thinking about summer. The Minack theatre, the north surf. Christmas. And I want to go home. Sell up. Leave this apartment. Live again, free from restrains. And I intend too.