Another trip round the solar system had brought me to the rusty black deckchair waiting on a sun-kissed grassy patch of the garden, on finally landing on the runway amidst late night celebrations and walking into arrivals ready to flick through and study the visa stamps on my life passport.

The sun was beaming its own simple broadcast message of love and light as I shook out a few Polaroid memories of the last twenty-four hours to dry in the warm breeze of springtime. Meanwhile, a rogue wasp crashed furiously round my summertime bucket hat like a drone run low on fuel and artificially instructed direction.

Last night ended abruptly in the early hours with a shattering of broken glass, and realising there was no sense crying over spilled JD and flat coke, took myself to task over this fall from the wagon and horses ride to the end of the Zodiac where the waters were rumoured to be still, unsalted, and ready for drinking.

And, looking round blearily for shoots of recovery, the grassy soil pushing up daisies, roses threatening to bud, so the synchronised sound of neighbourhood lawnmowers revved into action, carving like a digger through this pure mountain stream of peace and tranquillity, as I took the executive decision to abandon the deckchair in search of a brew and leftover cake.