I am a true child of Africa. My blood is thin and I can’t cope with the cold or skies that are too small. Put me in London in winter – which I love for its history, its energy, its beauty, the tube – and after three days I’m as claustrophobic as if you’d tied me up and put me in a box in a cupboard.
And that’s why I love this time of the year. Mid-Summer. The time of sleeping under a sheet only, the windows wide open to let in any whispers of a breeze that’ll chase the sticky air away. It’s sweaty and sultry and hot sleep is filled with wild dreams, waking with crumpled sheets and crazy hair.
It’s the time of hot white skies cooling to blue before melting into inky black, the Evening Star blinking and – right now – the full, fat moon pulling at the sea and adding a good dollop of madness to dreams.
The voluptuous moon keeps me awake, her silvery tendrils lighting up those crumpled sheets. Now that I don’t have to wake early to get to the Ivory Tower, I relish my time in the moonlight, as stories flit around in my head and fly out of the window.
As hard as I try, they keep slipping out and dissolving into the hot night.