ISLANDER

I’ve been dreaming about an island. It’s one of those ones with crescents of white sand that fall away into a turquoise sea. There are palm trees casting shadows, and cool groves of wildflowers that blow happily in the breeze.

Above, the sky is clear and blue, laced with the finest of white clouds, horse’s tails racing above the sparkling ocean, trailing and interweaving their way to the sun, and to the inland mountains.

I’m sitting with my feet angled into the hot white sand; heels in the groove, toes free in the warm air. I’m looking out over the sea, scanning for the white triangular sails of a boat, or perhaps the thin mast of a fancy yacht. The horizon is clear and flat. The sea is still.

I can’t explain why this is my dream at the moment I know this kind of thing would be plenty of people’s wish, but it feels so much deeper than the usual lottery winners’ wishful thinking. For one thing, I can’t work out whether (in the dream) I’m actually happy to be there. I think I am. It’s not ecstasy though - more just a sort of quiet understanding, a silent acceptance that that’s where I am, or perhaps would like to be - on a paradise island with nothing to do but watch the ships go by.

For another, I’m there on my own. If I were organising this island exactly as I would like it, I’d have definitely put everyone I love there - maybe playing some beach volleyball, maybe a few drinks at the coconut bar, or just friends to chat to as the first evening stars pop out above the ocean, and someone suggests a fire pit. But it isn’t that - it’s just the island. And it’s just me.

The morning sky’s always grey when I wake up. I mean by comparison, even the brightest of summer days is probably not going to match the fresh blue feel of that other place, but nevertheless 5:30am is drab, as though the sun can’t quite get through the window. Bleary-eyed, I do my best to stir and be thankful.