the motivation doesn’t. Wish I was in Paris, sipping a Ricard. Or down at Praa sands. Chewing a burger in Nepenthe, Big Sur. Wish I was five miles up with the Brize Norton jet coming back from the Middle East. It comes in every afternoon and I’d like to see Oxford town from up there. Idle, heatwave dreams. And in my bag I’ve got Lorca and his essay on duende, and Cape Trafalgar in coming weeks, and a book to write by Christmas. But it’s the reading about duende I want most. All is well.
