It's Wednesday afternoon. I don't work on Wednesday afternoons. In term time I'm ferrying boys to activities, running errands, writing cheques at the Mairie for canteen or childcare tickets, getting cash out to pay the student who tutors my eldest at maths, and trying to think of something tasty that's boy-friendly for supper.
With the boys away, errands fade into insignificance. The heat evaporates not only all moisture but all desire to move. If I have something to do, I can do it... later. Yes, later will do fine.
For the moment, I take the much un-used sunbed, spread it with a thick furry blanket then a towel, install it under the parasol and pick up some easy reading. The bamboo fencing that lies over the wooden supports shading the terrace is itself shaded by an encroaching vine from next door. I lie, dappled by strips of shade and mottled by leaves. Bunches of unripe Muscat grapes hang from beneath the bamboo having forced their way through. Come the Autumn, they'll be bursting with juicy sweetness.
The heat makes my eyelids heavy as I read. Finally I can bear it no longer and flatten out the sunbed into siesta mode, stretch out luxuriously and snooze while I tan. My book is a novel set on the island of San Antonio and I dream of Spanish fishing villages and little yachts anchored on an azur sea.
I shift lazily onto my stomach and listen to the crickets. Flies buzz annoyingly around my skin, attracted by trickles of sweat and moisture. I realise it's time for tea. With some relief, I haul myself up and into the coolness of the house. Soon I'll have to run my errand... later. Yes, I'll do it later.