
A bit of blue like the painted wooden doors and tiled floors in Essaouira last week; like my dress and the boats and the sea; then the same subtle scent of spice as the tea we drank sitting in the Persian café on Peckham High Street before I left.
And if the above counts as dwelling on the
past again (someone did tell me once that I do that a lot), then let these
sweet summery muffins also speak of the blue of the water in swimming pools in
back gardens, and of river valleys in far away places I want to visit; and of
every cup of cardamom tea we will drink, at the café or our desk or my old flat
or the new one or yours that I’ve yet to see; and of more new colours and more
new smells and of new beginnings.


