One of those days for which the word languid was invented.

Hot, dry, almost windless. Suddenly, the weather has taken one of it's acute turns, from frigid dampness, to searing desert heat. The sky is a widly improbable blue and the scent of laundry detergent and cut grass broiling in plastic bin-bags floats on the wisp of a breeze. People nap on corners and on the grass, and others, who have places to go and things to do, or they'd also be napping, move slowly, as the heat and sunshine renders us all a little less intelligent, like trolls in a Pratchett novel, brains liquefying like a Cornetto. A Timbaland song plays on repeat in my head.

The grass by the pond is coated with a blanket of shed feathers, but the seagulls aren't bothered: they're dipping in the water. Fat pigeons waddle and goo and plonk themselves on the heads of statues. A toddler girl with cheeks like chocolate cupcakes dances and sings to a tune of her own invention while her mother gossips at a security guard. I'm thinking of everything, but nothing in particular. Fresh, creamy-yellow waterlilies waggle their fingers at me. I've never eaten artichokes, I realise.

The smells, the unrelenting heat, the breeze, the tourists trying to find their way into the Art Gallery... signs and signals, saying "sumer... summer... summer". And for an hour, at least, all is right with the world.

**keep voting on the poll... will blog the winner next week.**