By the river

Today I ran out of things to do.

No boss in the office. No manuscripts running my way. And a strange
feeling of inertia. After all, I'm leaving this job in a few weeks time
for&;#8230;whatever comes my way.

I draw squiggles. Think of little copper-coloured fish swimming about,
consider what would happen if I moved up to Leamington Spa. Back with
my mates there, crusties, pub-hangers-out and drugheads. Try not to
worry about their end-of-summer paranoia and bickering and think about
the good times full of dogs and summer and fields. I remember this
summer ,a hot day and a stupidly blue sky, lying by a river, not far
from Stratford upon Avon. Getting the dread fuzz of nettles on my shins
(something I hadn't felt since junior school) as I went to watch the
guys swing on a rope overhanging the little weir. They must've known
that rope since they were kids. It's hard for me to imagine a rural
upbringing, but they let me in on it for a while.

I lay on the grass cuddling up to my mate afterwards, as he came up on
ecstasy, with my head against his chest. I could feel him getting high;
a weird sensation, intoxicating in itself. I hope he doesn't feel
embarrassed about what happened at his place later, rather falteringly,
after that long taxi ride where the driver pointed out the abandoned
church and told us how a man murdered his wife there a hundred years
ago. I didn't mind.

There's more I could say, but that's it, that's that day and all its
inspiration to me. Because I wouldn't want to spoil that memory; the
childish sky, the quickening of a heart and the rope swinging over the
cool river.