Summertime

There's something strange in the air today.

I can feel it on the edges of perception. A tingle on the skin. A brightness to colour. A weight that has lifted. A change in pressure. Everything is lighter, crisper, more defined. The wind has died away. The gusts that have been a feature of the past week, blowing gales down the wind-tunnel that is my road, have dispersed and now the sunshine can warm me as I walk along Bernard Street towards the car wash nestled beneath Hyde Park Terrace.

Dave is waiting there in his beaten-up red Fiesta, sixties psychedelia playing softly on the stereo and wafting from his open window. He sees me coming and gets out. He's a large man and it takes him a while to unfold from behind the wheel.

"Hey, Pynch," he says in his lazy drawl and engulfs me in a hug that squeezes the breath from my lungs. I have to tap on his back a couple of times before he lets go. "I heard what happened…" he starts to say but I cut him off.

"Don't worry about it," I tell him and rapidly change the subject. "Did you get it?"

"Sure," he says and reaches back into his car. He produces a small, clear, plastic bag with a small brown lump inside and dangles it between two fingers. "Was a bitch to get hold of though. I'd try and make that last if I were you. Dunno when I'll be able to get any more."

He hands it to me and I take it, open the bag and sniff what's inside. It smells like woodchips and stale cider. "Brilliant," I say and stuff it into the pocket of my jeans. "Are you hanging about?"

"Nah," Dave says. "I said I'd try and get back down to Nottingham before 6 and it's already gone 5."

I look at my watch. Ten past 4 it says and I say as much to Dave. He laughs at me, calls me a muppet and explains that the clocks went forward an hour last night. British Summer Time is here.

I wonder if that's what's throwing me off today.

Dave offers me a lift but I decline - there are other errands to run before the weekend is out and he's not going in the same direction as me.

It's dark by the time I get home. A crescent silver sliver hangs in the sky. The streets seem eerily calm and empty, even for a Sunday night, and I amble up the middle of the road without fear. So few illuminated windows on my street. Where is everyone?

I reach my door and the cat trots out from the bushes, starts to wind itself around my ankles. "Evening, puss," I say and reach down to scratch it behind the ears. It makes a half-hearted attempt to bite me which I all but ignore.

I open the door and the cat darts in ahead of me, vanishing off into the kitchen. I wander through to the living room and empty my pockets onto the coffee table. Three baggies, one envelope and a small cardboard box about an inch and a half square. A good haul, a successful day.

Only one thing missing.

I'll have to go and see Annie this week.