In the early sunshine on Clapham Common, a girl comes bounding into the avenue who might be described as a pocket rocket, every limb bursting with inflated muscle, not sinewy but more like rising dough … and she remains straight-backed as she lifts both arms to adjust a silky ponytail, moving it a little higher without breaking the rapid rhythm of her stride or losing any of her speed, and then, having lowered her arms again, she gently accelerates into a full sprint that curves away out of sight ... all too soon.
Next night, during a dream, I take yet another of a lifetime of interesting nocturnal journeys, and find myself in a village of picturesque cottages, some in ruin or disrepair, but many kept beautifully and delightfully furnished. Rushing in elation from house to house, I find myself on a village green that is so large and undulates so spectacularly that it might easily be used as a golf course, and I begin to run, and then feeling my cool bare feet moving effortlessly across the grass, I take great leaps, each of which might qualify me for an Olympic record. Then, without explanation, I raise my pillow above my head with both hands and use it as a hang glider so that I swoop and wheel above the hedges and walls. In a moment I am teaching villagers and visitors this new skill, and we wonder how we hadn’t learned it before … it seeming so easy now and so natural.
Waking with a thirst from these moments of joy, I go to stand quietly in the kitchen, first peeling an orange and then slicing an apple in the dark.
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