AL FRESCO RADIATOR

My arms feel as though all the heat of the sun has been trapped inside my skin. I’ve come out into the garden, late after sunset, to try radiating the heat back into the sky.

The night is cool, one of those July evenings you get that remind you of camp, of friends, of starlit conversations and being young enough to stay up laughing into the small hours.

I’m alone though tonight, pondering the moment and the day. Whatever happened to that do-anything feeling? Where did it go?

We went back to the beach today. Not much happened. I threw stones into the sea, then sat burning while the wind took my mind off it. It isn’t clever, and I feel a bit bad about it. I’m also redder than a bashful traffic light.

Once again, the sea retreated, leaving flat expanses of sand and mud that glistened in the sun. I read about pirates, and how scientists have worked out how to fit an ultrasound microchip inside a hypodermic needle. There was plenty of reference to the fact that wavelengths of electromagnetic radiation can’t be used due to the tiny size of the chip, but I still don’t think it would be enough to assuage the conspiracy theorists.

I needed a sketch pad, so just when the light was starting to turn golden, we packed up the beach things and drove into Minehead. My face felt tight and salty, which I remembered had always been a sign of a good day on the beach.

Minehead is the largest seaside town in these parts, and thanks to a wide expanse of once sandy beach, has a long esplanade and sea front. The other day, we saw it in the melancholy rain; today it was brighter and much more like I remembered it, though unfortunately, sandy no longer. We walked along for a little bit before heading for the tree-lined high street, in search of sketchbooks.

That street, actually called The Avenue, is a really nice road to walk up. Leafy green trees cast the whole thing in the sweetest kind of shade, and the collection of bistros, restaurants, pubs, haberdasheries, tattoo parlours, seaside gaffs and fashion stores just adds character.

“In a way,” said my Mum later, “It’s just a shame it doesn’t have a nicer beach.” Fair enough, I thought, casting a glance at the stony expanse that stretched out to the mud of the Bristol Channel. Though, I have a feeling that a nicer beach would in turn cause Minehead to be a little less quaint and a little more kiss-me-quick-punch-and-judy.

I found a sketchbook. Then we had al-fresco dinner in a place called ‘The Hairy Dog’ (it gave my Dad a lot of amusement and I genuinely don’t know why) and eventually found ourselves ambling back to the car.

I really am boiling. I think I might go for a late night walk, and swing my arms around in the cool air. It would be so useful to have these arms in the winter! Instead of teeth chattering in my flat while I’m cocooned in a duvet in front of my laptop, I could just whip out my red, sunburned limbs and toast the room up without even thinking about it.

But thermodynamics won’t permit it; the arrow of time is driven by the increase of entropy in the universe, and so roll I inexorably from can-do summer nights, when everything is possible, all the way to plain old Thursday. Which is tomorrow. If I don’t turn combustible in the night.