Sitting on the veranda
reading a very good very British novel
munching on the last bit of the chocolate Easter bunny
poplar seed dropping around me
very still except for birdsong and that lovesick woodpecker
someone next door is roasting something dinner-ish
and I am transported back to Jack's garden in Blackrock
with M in the kitchen preparing Sunday Lunch - meat, two veg and spuds with gravy -
calling out, will you switch on the Hostess trolley love
and Jack, glass of sherry anyone?
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