The cherry blossoms are out, the trees are flushed with green, and people are jogging past in sleeveless shirts or flopping around on the velvety lawn, exposing as much bare skin to the sun as they dare. The temperature is in the late teens. I’ve been colder in Barcelona, plenty of times.
Three months have gone by but nothing much has changed, aside from the fact that this is about the first time that I’ve picked up a pen since the course has finished.
I have little desire to write. The depression is still hanging over me, albeit temporarily banished by the sunshine and the beer. I still don’t have any clue about what to do. Perversely, choices can be made harder if the world is your oyster.
Except, that is, for the one choice that I’ve made half a lifetime ago, when I first came here.
A police car crept past. I hadn’t noticed it. It may only be a can of fruit beer, but I’d better move on. It wouldn’t do to get into trouble now.