Random Access Memories

If anticipation is the real pleasure then summer is the high I know I will inevitably one day have to come down from. For weeks there is no let up in the heat. Skies are pale blue, occasional clouds wispy and haphazard, spray painted to the far horizon by a device that clearly needs refilling. This close to the ocean there is often a breeze, but even the breeze knows its limits when the mercury hits thirty. Time stops. Without the bustle of school children the streets feel deserted. Even the dogs and their walkers have to conserve their energy. Nights are for not sleeping. The water on the Tamar glistens and reflects back the pale skies, but the tide seems to be out more often than not these days. Last year’s cygnets, now young adults, take up residence near the shoreline of Salt Mill Park. The moult is their summer holiday, rendered flightless for six weeks as they shed and grow new feathers. The pace of their life – or lack of pace – suits a climate where everything is motionle...

Germany in high summer – the heat seeping through and stealing all my energy. Church bells an endless cacophony as the early morning unfolds. In the bed next to mine Brian sleeps, oblivious to it all. Twenty seven years have passed. It is summer again. Cornwall. A non-tourist town emptied out for the season. A few local children remain, fishing by the creek or jumping off the harbour walls into the river. Most seem to have gone away with their families. The heat is not central Europe heat, but it is still oppressive in its own way. The grass has been bleached to the colour of straw. A tabby cat sleeps in the shade of a porch. It’s strange moving through these empty streets, surprise when you stumble across a passing car or a young woman hurrying to catch the next train. Then, as now, an eclipse is coming. Twenty seven years apart. I am older. We are all older. The trip to Germany began on a coach from Bristol to Heathrow. The steward on the coach reprimanding me for playing mus...