Lying on the bed looking up at the sky I think of flight. The clouds are wispy and moving fast like sped up film. There’s one that could be the ghost of the white rabbit: in ever such a hurry to get to who knows where and for what pointless purpose? It’s summer and the swallows are on wing. Their aerodynamic exhilaration is mesmerising. I admire the smooth, confident calligraphy of their swooping circles and figure of eights, so unlike the absent minded scratchy doodles on my notebook by the phone. Bloody call centres.
“What a complete and utter unmitigated fiasco, eh puss?”
The cat, curled up and dreaming at my feet, mutters as if to reply or complain. Her interest in things that fly has long since waned. I resolve to try phoning again for the ticket refund. But not now.
“Well, it’s an ill wind. That’s your annual trip to the cattery cancelled.”
Amelia stretches out her front legs as far as she can and releases an extended, almost musical purr like a happy sleepy sigh. There’s a smugness in cats at times like this. ‘Why would you want to go on holiday anyway?’
I imagine myself on a long haul flight, peering out through the tiny window at the clouds alongside. The sky above my window still looks as blue and warm as the Andaman Sea, or maybe even an Anglesey rock pool…
The swallows are still figure skating through the air tracing the outlines of invisible infinity symbols. They are like planes in a holding pattern awaiting a landing slot, but they never land.