he knows the heat’s coming. He’s been out chasing butterflies while I flail and fail over the lines. The words have been sticking lately, I waste hours daydreaming about boats and skimming the blue. I watch the old action flicks, Cold Sweat and The Last Ride, washed-up crims running yacht tours and caning it around the corniches. I wonder if I’d love it or hate it, fishing in the bays between the gaps of boat chores, repayments and routines. I think it’s because I’ve been landlocked so long, my sea fever, and the world feeling more bound up in rules and restrictions than I can ever remember, with the dread of another winter lockdown nagging at me. I could take the skimmer out to St Kilda, camp out for a few nights. Across to the pink granite isle. Or are we always worrying about one last job, the big payback, the easy money that never comes. The cat’s got the smarts, he knows not to waste his time future-gazing when he could curl up and snooze.