Nothing to Report

August kicks in. The weather changes every five minutes; humid, grey, sun, heat, and underneath it all an undercurrent of autumn. This is wrong. There should be no signs of autumn yet. August should be endless, impenetrable feverish heat, otherwise that shift into autumn is robbed of its power.
There is the sound of movement next door. Furniture being moved, large objects being dragged across the floor. Yesterday afternoon, while attempting to sleep after a long week at work, the sound of drills and hammering.
I caught the night bus home last night from the pub with Al, Claire and Sarah. The bus was busy and there was no seats. There was shouting from upstairs.
There was no-one interesting on the bus.