When will the summer end?
I returned my books today; the last traces of sixth form have been scrubbed clean. Now I belong nowhere. I am not unhappy, but I have no firm friendship group that I am part of, and there is no time of day when my family sit down to discuss things over a meal, so that when we bump into each other on the stairs we are almost strangers.
Rookie describes summers enveloped in a kind of haze, a shimmery haze of heat or perhaps just the dust from the disintegrating leaves fallen last autumn that blows up from the pavements as the cars roll past. My English summer is as long and aimless as the summers passed in rural America, on ranches with porches surrounded by golden wheat fields. Three months with no obligations, and the centre of London feels like the edge of nowhere. The white collar workers on Baker Street, with their fixed coffee breaks and coffee fixes, I almost envy them.
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