I can almost smell summer.

Today, I caught the smell of warm sun on fresh grass, as I cut a path through the park. That distinct scent. Unmistakable, and magical. It will always remind me of... 

School sports days.

Cereal on the decking, under the umbrella, and sandwiches on the garden bench, at the old house.

The first and last music festival I went to, where we’d drink from cans at 10am and take turns climbing on different sets of shoulders in the crowd. We scrawled messages on each other’s legs; one of mine said ‘open all hours’. 

Taking a precious half an hour away from the screen, sneaking off to the park at the end of my road to read my book and look out over the enormous pond full of lily pads.

Dressing up as pirates and getting drunk on the beach.

Dressing up as pagan fairies and getting drunk on the cliffs.

Sweaty glasses of bubbly pink cider on the Southbank.

That time we tried to play basketball in the park across the road from my bright red house.

Packed lunches.

The cat, climbing up the drainpipe and onto the roof.

Me, climbing out a window and onto a different roof. 

My Name Is You, their first album.

Slushie cocktails by the pool on Christmas Day.

The two occasions in my whole entire life (probably) when I’ve swum in a lake.

Chips on pebbles.

Seagull squawks.

Balloons and tiaras.

Expectations and promise.

Unholy levels of serotonin.

Steaming bins.

Creaky wicker furniture, and closed blinds.

Two coffees on a scorching stone bench, people watching on a cobbled street in Rye. Asking permission to rub sun cream on your neck. 


At last. 


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