FORBURY GARDENS

It’s one of those muggy July days. The sun is hot through the clouds and the air is thick and still.

I’m in Forbury Gardens. Over in the bandstand, five couples are waltzing to Italian strings and warbling tenors, and beyond them, a small party gather round a happy bride and groom.

Clouds of strawberry smoke puff up from picnickers on the grass, and kids in red t-shirts run between flowerbeds as though powered by Coca Cola.

There’s a group of tourists gathering by the lion. Their bright yellow rucksacks look like flowers from here, bobbing around the pedestal of all the names of the 66th Berkshire Regiment. It’s a juxtaposition of histories, and who knows if they can tell why this famous lion has been silently roaring at the train station for a hundred years.

I really like this time of year - though it is certainly hot. The trees are in fullest, deepest green, and the gentle under-leaves are translucent enough to dapple the shade. I’m on a bench, eating a burrito. I wear a cool blue shirt and denim jeans. I might get an ice cream.

The couples dance on. I do not believe I’ve ever danced like that - left hand in right, right arm over left shoulder, a gentle swing around the bandstand of shuffling feet. It’s delicate, genteel, soft and stately, old-fashioned in a way, and still lovely in another. I expect you’d be surprised to learn that I’d like to, one day. I doubt that I will though.

My friend and I are going to see some open-air Shakespeare later. The tragedy of King Lear. I booked two tickets earlier in the week. While the storyline might be about fear, loss and suffering, hopefully the performance itself will be uplifting. Either way, the sky will dim purple and the sun will sink behind the Abbey Ruins as the stage lanterns flicker on. It’ll be enjoyable.

This is, at least, a better way to spend a Saturday then. I’m making an effort. And Forbury Gardens, a place I’ve been coming to all my life, is not unpleasant.