Alistair Sawdays website and books are my favorite comfort read in front of the fire during these increasingly cold, dark days. I dream of warmer weather and far off places, I long for Cornwall or Wales and early mornings on the beach. I plan imaginary stays at unaffordable HIP hotels, sunset drinks at waterside pubs, fantastic lunches at moorland Inns, snoozey evenings at places with rooms draped in taupe and lilac, smelling sweetly of fresh cut flowers and fancy bath salts. A big room at the front above the bar is the best, watching the drinkers leaving and thinking ‘poor souls’ as they don’t get to collapse into this bed, into these crisp white cotton sheets, to hurl excess cushions and pillows decadently around the room and fall mindlessly into a deep pleasurable sleep. And… she continues feverishly, neither do they rise in the morning to soak in the contempory bathing space, to squander eco-friendly body oils and shampoos in outlandish environmentally dangerous quantities. I think perhaps as much as the man that lives on the sofa dreams of two wheeled adventures I languish in a comparable gloom of wishful thinking and flick with increasing distress over images of another life. Bugger!.
