Yesterday’s festivities have left Clemmie fractiously tired, and now she dozes in her pushchair, her flushed face dappled by the shifting leaves of the sycamore tree above.
Will and I nestle in the lush grass, picnic remains littering the tartan blanket, a second half-empty bottle of wine propped drunkenly against the hamper.
The sun beats down, the river slaps lazily against its banks, and bees drone as we too succumb to sleep.
When we awake, in this special place where Clemmie’s journey first began, we will find it has ended, two years, nine months and one day later.
A minor miracle that I have anything to submit today, with three builders excavating the back garden, one kitchen fitter hammering away indoors, and a random array of heavy vehicles reversing up and down our drive. Thanks to Rochelle, who is returning from a week on the coast – for finding the time to keep the wheels of Friday Fictioneers turning.