What would I do with this startling autumn day if I were wholly free and that sky was like that? Fetch my hair into a top knot. Fancy the floorboards sandy. Eager, bowl out the door?
Would I put on this old French blue Oxford shirt? My fathers commandeered. Winsome with the stiff big Napoleanic collar and splat of white paint on the placket and there's a speck on the yoke too. Roll the sleeves up fat past my biceps as if I were Hemmingway in a fishing boat. Or Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy pruning roses. In girlish leggings slip on filthy plimsoles. I'd paint. A whole wall that Bowler Hat. A signature one in the fashion. Running down and along the skirting not stopping at the architrave or even the flush door or knob. Concealed like we were at the back of the cinema or in a side room of the louvre. I'll laugh, to go to the bathroom tonight 'I'll need the Cigarette Girl to show me out!'
I'd put the garden away for winter. Bundle the hose and loose buckets into the shed. Fork compost over the rasberry line. One last weed. Something for lunch that asked for lots of chopping and the last of those late chillies. Shovel my reading glasses back up my nose with the heel of my hand and sniff. Then after, I'd write about something.