Clothes are spinning in the tumble dryer- falling and rising inside the heated cylinder, cuffs touching trousers, caressing a hem. Tomorrow, we are leaving for the green forest. Rest. Space. Slow drunk coffee. Idle green tea. Words making a story unfold. This is what my dreams are made of.
In the last fifteen days, I have journeyed to Paris, flown to Korea, given a conference paper, tasted hot chilli cabbage, drunk fizzy fermented milky pale rice drinks, peeked at the elegant beauty of unvisited mountains, admired the stationery, flown back to Paris, spent the night in a stuffy yellow curtain-stained station hotel, caught the Eurostar, watched a girl cry too early in the morning, camped in a storm and woke thinking I was inside a flying spaceship, been to a red velvet cupcake Brighton wedding, returned to France, worked at the hospital.
Tomorrow, after work, we drive down South, hit the autoroute in our new second-hand VW camper, watch the kids grin in the back of the van.
For now, the children are sleeping in soft sticky slumber. The washing turns in the heat.