RSS

Contact us

Saturday 22 November 2008

Slow Life

Happy hour

The thunderstorms had washed away the haze and given the big sponge a drink. Six kinds of weather in one day, a mad spin cycle. A tree that had buds on clearly definable branches last night looked green and fuzzy on top this evening. Perfectly sculpted anvils of cumulonimbus spotted the horizon. There was a glimpse of a stately home through the trees. We were zooming through an immaculate stationary eternity, a landscape arrested by sunshine. Sheep were statuesque on the mound. Some of the hedgerows were pure white with blossom, others still asleep. It was so colourful it was like being underwater.

‘It’s nice,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you could come this way.’ We stopped in the middle of the huge field at the centre of a pristine green landscape on the very threshold of spring, the sun warm on our faces and the engine warm on our behinds. ‘What are those clouds called?’ ‘Cumulonimbus,’ I said. ‘CBs. ‘They’re incredibly violent.’ But they looked like decorations on a Christmas tree.

Then the engine died. ‘There’s no fuel,’ she said. ‘I told you.’

‘There’s loads of fuel. It’s just a lemon, this thing.’

I couldn’t make it start and she started back towards the house with the dog, on foot. I passed her five minutes later in the middle of the dandelions. ‘I can’t slow down or it’ll stop, do you want to hop on?’ I hollered. She was shaking her head and smiling and in her hand was a little bunch of dandelions.

More articles from: Alex James | this section

Print this article  |  Email to a friend  |  Permalink  |   Comment

Post this entry to:   del.icio.us | Digg | Newsvine | NowPublic | Reddit

Advertisement

Spectator Business | Apollo Magazine

Corporate | Advertising | Privacy | Terms

Spectator, 22 Old Queen Street, London, SW1H 9HP

All Articles and Content Copyright ©2008 by The Spectator | All Rights Reserved