It was as though the essence of festival had been tube packed then blown up. Our vantage point was excellent, we clearly saw: it was fire fragments of candied fruit, fairy lights, tinsel sheen; glitter flowers, gaudy wrap; they burst into the night, blitzed out, dropped jaws: such brief and glorious pauses. We drove home, down lanes, tiny, roofed in hedge: labyrinthine: the moon was three quarters fat, shining. Our bellies ruminated burger and chips. I should like to be a spark, of sorts, I think, while the road opens out to streetlamps and there are silhouettes behind curtains. Just one spark, and we should have a camper van, and drink more coffee on more beaches and just one grain of sand on the beach of brilliance, that's my ambition, one amongst the throng that calls to you and says this is it, is it not enough? Look closely, it is all this beautiful, it is all delicious, and you don't need much and how lovely were those fireworks, one is all agog.

A late night: and a nervous morning: The Chap has exam results to collect. At Launceston College he has the door open before the car is fully parked. We catch him up and he is smiling, an automatic surface smile, holding his envelope, opened, and the page of plain type says yes, and he nods: he got what he needed.
We went to the shops, we bought bacon and rum.


You most certainly are a spark, Lisa.
Sending Gros Bisous from Provence,

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