Long weekend

Usually this tray, which my mother gave me a couple of years ago, is brought to me, in bed, with breakfast, on Saturdays and Sundays. During the week I have my coffee and toast in front of the computer or on the terrace, as Vince is out of the house by 6am, but at the weekend he makes breakfast and we have it together, me reading whatever I'm reading, in bed, and he reading whatever he's reading, on his computer. It's quiet, and it's nice. After breakfast we plan our day. But this weekend he is sick, and after a day-and-a-half of lying flat he had not eaten much. He felt a little better on Saturday night and I made him a small salad for Saturday supper, and this time he got the tray. He polished it off. Not the tray, the salad. Well, he had to: I grated some parmesan over the top. I know. Sneaky.

I also shopped for a new air conditioner and while we wait for it to be delivered we experience a little of what is to come. Heavy, damp air. The cat stretches on the floor, as long as he can make himself, legs and tail in opposite directions. The big fan is brought from The Hole, where it has been since...(Hm. I don't know when we put it away. Early fall?) and whirrs nonstop again. Its blades sound like the props of a small plane, beating silver air. It is time to pack away the duvet. Thunderstorms throw fat raindrops at us every day. The climbing roses have been deadheaded.

The chicken I had planned to grill on Friday must be grilled tonight, on the fire on the terrace, Frenchman or no Frenchman. So if you smell something smoky, something like rosemary, with some lemon and garlic just beneath that, that will be me: cooling off by cooking outside, waiting for the air conditioner, toasting the beautiful ships in the harbour for Fleet Week, waiting for the heliotrope to grow.