Low lion growls rumble under early morning birdsong. The sun peeks out between slow drifting clouds. Dew-spattered flowers, fresh from Winter sleep, guide a colourful way across manicured lawns. Growls fade. Canopies of ash and elm, poplar and cedar, line up like guards of honour. Occasional joggers pass, a five-a-side kickabout with briefcases as goalposts. Fragrant puffs of May are carried on a light breeze. A dawdling detour to Queen Mary’s Rose Garden. Sitting down on a bench, eyes closed, I breathe in a mass of fresh blooms.
Six weeks ago, fired by Greys, career in the toilet, social life flushed away. Five weeks ago, hired by Robin, who has just moved from Ogilvy to FCB. From living back with parents, to renting the basement flat in Michael’s Primrose Hill house. Exchanging crushed, rush-hour underground rides for a Regents Park stroll from London Zoo to Baker Street.
Personal life on hold; Britain going backwards. Inhaling Summer’s promise.
seeing slow ascent
to the longest day
winter slinks away
Bon mot ! And merci!
Ee by gum, Michael lad. There’s nought like stickin’ yer noggin in nature to bring yer a little serendipity.