A little boy squirted me with a water pistol when I came out of the cheese shop. Now if he’d been mine I’d have read him the rules (“never squirt at someone unless they’re also carrying a water pistol” is the main one; I have a whole set of regulations somewhere, mostly concerned with territory rights of my kids and the neighbourhood kids when they were small) but he wasn’t, and anyway he was only about three or so. So I gave him a stern look and said “you shouldn’t really squirt at people without asking, you know”. He looked a bit sad –probably proud he’d hit me in the first place– so I added “but you may squirt at me again, I liked it!”
Because it’s warm; not yesterday’s tropical temperatures, but close and humid and mostly cloudy, with annoying harsh light that gives me a headache and makes me think there’s something wrong with my eyes. The flowers the girls got from various people when they passed their exams last week are droopy and smelly. I want a trollish cooling hat because my brain seems too hot to think with. But ice cream exists, and little boys with water pistols exist, God’s in His heaven, all’s right with the world.