Here it is, more or less transcribed from my ballpen notes, which I can’t be bothered to turn into the usual deathless prose (Ed: what, no internet? No computer? No typewriter? Me: nope):
Ridiculously long evening shadows.
Excessively friendly flying insects.
Grass cutting, of the sort that causes passers-by to concentrate hard on not shaking their heads.
Watching friends playing with unfeasible numbers of grandchildren while wishing they’d invite me down the pub.
Watching four unfeasibly gorgeous girls and their three (Ed: three?) boyfriends photographing everything, occasionally smiling up at me.
Smiling back and wishing they’d invite me down the pub.
At twilight on Saturday, down between the trees, a small boy insistently jumping the tiny ankle-high waves, because that’s what he’s doing; he turns to his laughing mother to confirm this, which she does.
That’s about it. Eating. Drinking. Sleeping. Breathing. Yawning.
My neighbour B: “You should come down for longer.”