Riffing in Writing

  I am standing in the middle of the road in the Lower Village, and I am staring at my phone. I am dressed for a walk: faded felt Bolivian sunhat, bird decorated recycled plastic backpack from the RSPB (best backpack ever, by the way) and boots. Some clothes as well, in case you were worried. It is seven a.m. on the last day of April. A heatwave is forecast; the world around is singing with the surprise and scents of early summer.  And I am standing staring at my phone.  A man marches past at purposeful speed with a word, ‘Morning’. He too is thumbing his phone. Automatically, I judge him. He is missing the day in his rush to the station. I always judge people who are on their phones. How can they be confined to tech when the sounds and burgeoning fresh colours of life surround them?  But clutched in my hand is my own device, and my eyes are downcast and focused on the pixels.  But THIS is Merlin. I want to excuse myself, to run after him and show him the app. T...

  I’m waterskiing! I’m actually up on my feet, it’s exhilarating!  Whooping, I manage a swerve across the wake and, wobbling, regain my equilibrium, gripping the bar, feeling strong and in control. The powerful motorboat that tows me seems solid, the pilot drives swiftly, confidently. The spray on my face is cool in the sunshine. But I see a wave coming our way from the left, and behind it, another. There are several, and each is bigger than the last. I will the pilot to turn into the rising water so we can rise with it. There’s no time to stop, to get out of the way. A sense of impending doom wells up in my centre; the young helmsman clearly has no idea what to do. A dark cloud scuds in front of the sun. She’s swerving erratically, and, attached, I have no option but to cling on and follow. What? The boat is finally nosing towards the wave but can’t surf over it. It is too late, the mountain of water is curling above the prow, and the entire boat is swamped, pulled into the d...