“This is your first time, right?”
The knife slid from my already-sweaty palm onto the ground with a thud. Someone had seen!
She was perched on a branch above me, swinging her legs. Behind her, gossamer wings sparkled in the half-light.
My heart stopped. This was it. I’d gone mad with the stress of it all. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
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Reaching for my phone, I brace myself for the usual abusive messages from my ex. But for the second day in a row, nothing.
I glance at the clock. Dad asked me to tune into Radio 4 now, for reasons unknown. “You’ll see,” he smiled. Typical Dad, avoiding direct communication, everything a riddle.
The Desert Island Discs theme tune floats out of the speakers like a gentle breeze. The sly old dog! I turn up the volume.
“I’m delighted to welcome today’s Castaway, retired England cricketer, David Myles!” says Lauren Laverne.
“David, you’ve famously declined several invitations over the years. But there’s a very personal reason you’ve agreed now.”
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The trouble with British Summer Time, apart from it being a misnomer that is, is it takes Joel Bloom nearly a week to catch up with the lost hour. Mornings are difficult: a constant struggle with his body clock, which point-blank refused to accept the evidence of his eyes when looking at his bedside clock.
“Can’t be eight already,” he would murmur in his fractured oddity of a voice. Since Becca said she was leaving, he formed the habit of talking to himself. Good company and intelligent conversation, he joked, but the reality is, he is lonely and affronted by her betrayal. The bloody postman, he thought, how much of a cliché is THAT?
“Maybe it’s time to look again,” said his head.
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