as the day’s heat oozes skywards. The air’s sluggish over the Brize Norton to Chilterns plain, here the clouds hang and the asthma cases rocket. All Oxford veterans dream of end-game sea breezes and wave gazing, the littoral crinkles and dips in the Earth crust, the lapping blue lens. One day, if I ever reach Summertown escape velocity, I’ll drag this bucket to the beach, put the car on bricks and kick off my reality boots. But I’ve another decade ahead of Broad Street drop-offs, Moo-moo’s and Covered Market bangers, the Rose and Crown handle or straight glass dilemma, off to Parkway on that which rolls and trying not to fluff my lines at garden parties. And I’ll keep dreaming of two hundred perfect pages.
