Seven years ago, my diary for 28 February 2003 reads:
‘In the evening we visited Fran and Howard who live nearby and had just sold their house to celebrate with them. When we got home after ten our house was very hot, indeed the hall gauge showed 26 degrees. So we opened the doors and sat on the patio seat, a whisky nightcap for me, tonic with a twist of a lemon from our tree for Anne. We left the house lights on but did not put the patio ones on. There was interplay of light and shadow on the patio and surrounding shrubs. The white nicotiana and alyssum and variegated flax glowed in the reflected light. Overhead were the stars, part of my childhood sky but rarely noticed in the city. The air remained absolutely still for about ten minutes. There was movement, Dorothy padded out of the bushes to flop down quietly by our feet and moths fluttered over the lawn and around the flowers. One of the beauties of moths and butterflies is their silent flight. We just sat there contemplating the surroundings. There was no sound. Then with a gentle stirring of air, the mildest of breezes arrived, touching the pittospernum leaves. "That was a moment of absolute perfection," Anne said. We remained outside as it continued warm, talking far into the night.
Lowlife: Short Story Collection Published
9 hours ago