A skill I wish to learn
I am sitting on a wooden bench, by the red-brick wall of a small Elizabethan palace. I am leaning against the arm-rest. My legs, stretched out before me, take up two thirds of the seat, and my bare toes are wriggling with the pleasure of sunshine. Behind the bench, a few sprigs of lavender nod to the breeze, and express their soothing fragrance. The self-satisfied gurgle of the Tudor courtyard fountain is caressing my soul. Somewhere in the vicinity, a crow is cawing. I sense mockery in his or her tone. On my lap, is my usual A4 spiral notebook; in my hand, my usual fountain pen.
A gentleman and his wife stop to ask me directions for the café in the park. Before I have a chance to point, he exclaims, “Oh, my goodness – you’re writing! And with a proper pen! It’s ages since I’ve seen anyone…
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