Fog lies in the valley. The mountains, like islands, rust red with bracken in the ocean of fog, catch the morning sun. I make myself an espresso and sit down to read. The coffee dilates my arteries, blood rushes to my head, carrying a thousand thoughts. I drank too much last night, I found myself in that place again, on the sofa, watching football. It was Saturday, and today is Remembrance Sunday. There’s nothing much I want to remember about yesterday. Today an ocean of fog lies in the valley and even as I sit here I can see it being burnt off by the sun. The espresso dilates my arteries, blood speeds thoughts. Across the soft waters they come, appearing out of the mist, the barges, the triremes, the cogs, cutters and cruise ships of thought, the tankers and tugs, thoughts ferried from the banks of memory to the shores of consciousness. From island to island, across an ocean of fog. She’s sitting opposite me, in red, the wine glass at her lips. I’m holding her hand on the beach. She gets out of bed to bring me coffee. I see such hope in her eyes, and such belief. The children play in the garden: the girl is on the swing, the boy is kicking a football. Grandpa is flying a kite, my brother launches a Chinese lantern. The world is still young, and there is much still to wonder at. There is everything to live for. You still want her.