Sunday, 09:54, London

I haven’t been checking the forecast. A prediction of last Sunday’s heatwave would have filtered through, in the least through Steph’s aspirations to bask and tan. I’d guess we’re on for an average of what we’ve had this summer. 

The sky’s full but not overcast. There’s sunlight on the bank across the canal, tall grasses and wildflowers sway behind the playground. Glimpses of blue can be seen between banking clouds. Heatwaves are distracting, anyway. 

This could be home for a lot longer. We’ve been given first refusal on buying the flat from our landlord. I’m excited about the prospect of owning this place, or at least, slowly contributing to owning a part of it, or the feeling of owning it, having the stability of a base that’s ours.

I won’t be used to the permanence. I haven’t lived in one place or the same neighbourhood for more than two years since I left home at eighteen. A permanent home could be liberating, a privilege.

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