LIFE, THE UNIVERSE AND GOATS
The Dry Grass of Summer Shangri-La-on-Sea
They are agreed: the Best of Times. The sea bubbling blue and the sand golden. Orange groves, up and down scrubby hills, pine forests and roadside cafés, they are drinking Sangria, munching olives, and at midnight race arm in arm the long sweep of warm sand to the blue blue blue blue blue blue sea.
I am the General. Military man. Personal consultant to the sanctuary of the Field Marshal. Never again to be caught with trousers below the knee. For when the chips are down, when your fish fries and frazzles, your first call is to the General.
And if the bulge in Cherubim’s belly bursts, come next Christmas we can expect to see — son of Chopper. Blue sea burbling to the knee, he scans the horizon for the enemy.
Jennifer Barker stretches a glistening brown leg and smooths cream in tight circles from the top of her thigh to the tips of her toes.
The new black box waves Chicane’s Saltwater the warm evening breeze.
Lost in space.
To an undiscovered country.
The Professor stares down at horny cloven toes. ‘You know what I’ve always fancied? …’
Down by the sea.
And a sanctuary.
‘… Raising a family of goats.’