birds on the water, coffee on the boil

The cygnets have nearly lost all their grey. I saw the four of them fishing at the mouth of the Burn, where it spills next to West Sands and into the bay. Their parents were nowhere to be seen.

They'll be gone soon. I don't know where. Somewhere with a nice bit of water and a lack of predators hopefully.

My first espressos of the day. I started with tea and moved on to coffee. Usually it's the other way around. Usually I hammer the coffee down until I need something a touch more soothing. Today I've got it backwards. I will most likely move back to tea. The mixture of these espressos and Carmena Burana thundering through the flat is akin to plugging my fingers into a wall socket. I'm not sure I can type accurately as fast as their desire to move. It means I must occasionally break from typing and air-piano grandly along to the music. It means that my fingers get angry when my brain stops telling them what to type. They care not if it makes no sense, if it's gibberish and the mutterings of lunacy, they just want to keep typing, my ears want to hear the click of the keys, and my brain's not entirely sure what to give them. Adverbs help in this situation. Adding that -ly, weighing down sentences with needless enhancements keeps the fingers busy and lends a pleasing wordiness that seems good at the time but in the cold light of a caffeine comedown will need brutal and savage editing. Strunk & White's Elements of Style is firmly fixed to my writing conscience and must not be ignored.

The problem with the coffee is that it tastes so damned good. Espressos in particular. And I can make them in the comfort of my own home. It fuels the writing, not just the caffeine but the ritual - the short espresso cup next to the pint of water next to the mug of tea. Everything I need is there. I sip and type and flip pages and repeat. I write a sentence or a paragraph and take a sip and the texture and flavour reward every turn of phrase.

The door to the balcony's open and it's raining in the brilliant sunshine. One of the swans is fishing near the harbour lock. I can't tell if it's one of the cygnets or not. I hear the shouts of the lobstermen and watch as the swan drifts into the sparkle of reflected sunlight. I'm writing it all down, my fingers demand it. It's otherworldly, out my door and somewhere else entirely. And then it's gone, drifts out of view but drifting still in mind.

I think I'll make some more coffee and write some more.

I cannot think of anything I'd rather do right now.