I had a dream. It was Newcastle. It was a summer weekend. The town was recovering from a night of drinking, mindless gaming in the arcades, equally mindless hooliganism on the post modern promenade. Early dogs avoiding late vomit. But at our end, the harbour community, all was clean after a blameless night of sea watching, moderate Guinness quaffing and strolling around the boats moored between the two piers. No vomit. No dogs.
Late dawn: the sun is up and warm; the tide is in; the sea is glassy smooth-not even a gentle zephyr. The sky is light blue and nary a cloud. The Guardian fresh from Near Buy is unruffled and unfolded. Awaiting attention. There are no stories about footballers health problems to skip swiftly The tea is brewing in a silent kitchen. House guests still snoozing quietly. Oh if only twas true.
It is.
