The sun’s burning the top of my feet as I sit at my desk, supposedly lesson-planning, but actually procrastinating as always. I’m holding out for as long as possible before moving, but it gets to the point where I just can’t take any more. I tuck my legs under the chair, relishing the coolness as they move back out of the glare of sunlight coming through the open doors. They feel like they’re three times their normal size and I flinch as I realise quite how cold the marble tiles underneath them are. I hitch my suddenly freezing feet up onto the chair and sit, cross-legged, like a leprechaun.
My ears prick up. There’s that sound like the TARDIS coming from outside again. I don’t know what it is, but every time I hear it the child in me – the one that used to wish on the first star every night that she could become a fairy – is hopeful that the Doctor is going to appear and whisk me away on the adventure of a lifetime. Just so long as he doesn’t take me back to the Blitz. The Empty Child episodes were bloody terrifying.
An accordion player starts up somewhere to the back of the building. They’re getting more frequent now that the sun’s coming out regularly. I like listening to them, even if the sound does make me think of France, rather than Italy. I close my eyes and lean back in my chair to enjoy the music.
A flutter of wings interrupts my reverie. A brave pigeon has just landed on the balcony outside my bedroom and is cocking an eye at me to judge whether I’m a threat or not. Yeah, you bet I am, buster. I glare back at him and flap my hands menacingly. He makes that bubbling coo that pigeons make, as if to say, Ma dai! What’s the problem?I continue to flap. He grumbles back at me. Va bene, bellamia; I’m going. Then he hops through the railing and takes to the wing again. He doesn’t go far – just across to the shady part of the courtyard where the neighbourhood pigeons usually hang out – but it’s good enough for me. I’m a cat person. No birds allowed around here, especially when I’ve got clean sheets hanging on the line to dry.
A breeze rustles through the palm trees in the courtyard. It sounds like the sea shushing on shingle. It doesn’t smell like it, though. Not unless the sea has started smelling like clean laundry, that is. I inhale and stretch my feet out again. In a minute I’ll get up and check if it’s dry – but not … just … yet …
My eyes close.
There’s always time.
Image by Olmeco (Creative Commons)
This post was inspired by the Scintilla Project‘s day 4 prompt: What does your everyday look like?