Holiday (sung Madonna style)

Ooh yeah - another week off. Can't you just feel the washing drying crispy wrinkly soft on the line under the absolving gaze of the whole sky's blue eye? Can't you feel the self indulgent delight in reading a whole hard cover mystery novel with a grumpy Italian protagonist, in one sitting, following the sun around the house and drinking tea? Can you feel the pieces of knitted wool between my fingers as I lie, belly down, on the floor, sewing them together with wide confident stitches from a round ended slippery needle? Can you smell the strangely fragrant glue as I embark on wild cutting and pasting jaunts to make collagey postcards? Can you see the dark watercolour wash clouds blooming overhead from our vantage point where the sky looks huge and mysterious and we try to read it's intent to rain and plan to scuttle under cover accordingly? Can you see the tall dense bush that lines this path like badly treated sable brushes gone dry and monsterous in their indignation, as we walk in half light over rocks towards a peak with a view?