There is a philadelphus or mock orange half way up Mount Sion. Its white blossoms cover it like snow, and its scent floats up and down the hill and into Berkeley Road, better than any artificial perfume.
It is very rare that I can't get to sleep. My method of overcoming wakefulness is to go over in my mind routes that I used to travel to work, especially the one that criss-crossed the countryside between Tunbridge Wells and Sutton in Surrey, avoiding the M25 and most major roads. It used to take an hour door to door; it takes five minutes to send me off, even though I am supposedly at the wheel.
It is the time of year when abutilon begins to flower. We have a white one; its bell-shaped blooms belong to summer.
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When I wake up in the morning and I see from the clock that I've only got half an hour before it's time to get up, I imagine mysef standing at a bus stop waiting for a bus. Then I think how long, seemingly endless, that wait can seem.
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