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‘Quick’, I scream, dropping the dishcloth into the sink, my hands covered in froth as though they’ve got rabies. ‘Out!’
We grab the camping chairs, stashed in the darkest corner.
On our garden path, we bare milk blue arms, point sour faces towards the sun, like members of an obscure cult.
Two minutes pass. Then, black, voluptuous clouds devour the distant frolic of heat and close their ranks once again.
‘Summer’s done’, I sigh and turn to my husband. ‘Stick the kettle on, will you?’
We sit at the kitchen table, reminiscing.
‘Wasn’t it great?’, he says.
I stretch out my hand to touch his and melt into this beautiful memory of a fleeting moment.
Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland
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