no, it ain't my beloved work amigo Chongy singing Mister BoJangles, or the noise of teh hoover as Tricky vacuums her palm tree and parrot (and that's not even euphemistic). and for once it's not the pip of the phone when Cinnamon Boy texts, although there is a certain cadence to that.
it's actually the strange short zylophone noise of the French dude who mans the deck chairs in Green park flicking them from their prone beached whale positions to billowing seat-ness.
i was lying in the park with my frappucino today (as you do and it doesn't make boys that you like who've been at work since 3.30am want to pop over and kill you AT ALL) waiting for it to be late enough to head to work when French dude surrounded me with prostate deck chairs, in a 'oi bird, you're spoiling my design' kind of a way
but then he started his snake charming assemblage and all was right in the world, as they blew in green and white stripey-ness and the sun shone down on me.
and the fact that my dad sounds scared and tired and could hardly manage a sentence without coughing so hard i couldn't make him out seemed part of a larger picture.
Vive le sunshine.
V. jealous of Seriously, my spiritual brother in Scrumptuousness, as his job today is to play in the water park at Minehead Butlins.
which given the fabulosa of weather, don't sound all bad.