It is 9.45 pm. The sky is still bright, blue overhead but grey and rainy-looking over Gourock. Our garden is filled with the scent of Philadelphus and the stink of next-door's cheminea - or whatever you call these pot-bellied stove efforts with which modern aspirationals attempt to bring indoors outdoors (or is it the other way round?) In the town below, the yoof yell occasionally. This is midsummer in Dunoon.
Actually I fear that the young next doors are having an "empty", and that they lack the necessary fire-raising skills to produce heat without smoke. I don't actually think they need heat, as the evening is almost oppressively warm. I don't care for this fashion of taming one's garden and then sitting resolutely in it in all but a downpour. In these parts you need to burn so many anti-midge devices that the garden smells like a High Mass in full swing.
Be that as it may, I'm going to compose myself for sleep before midnight, as I have to be up betimes (wonderful expression). Yoof, the fires of hell, incense ... I must ignore them all. To sleep, perchance to dream ....
Midges. Ay, there's the rub.
ReplyDeleteI wonder if one could say they keep you up to scratch?
ReplyDeleteOne can say anything as long as it is witty. Or literary.
ReplyDelete