Garden sun

It's the last week in September, it's half past five and I'm sitting in my garden bare arms exposed.
My cat lies with a smile on her face, having dined on sea bream courtesy of a fridge freezer whose prayer to be defrosted was finally heard. Let's just say it took longer than anticipated for the iceberg-like lumps to descend drip by drip into the strategically placed plastic basin.
Soggy potato dauphinoise, the sad half of a Marks & Spencer meal for two cuddles up to a flaccid bag of drippy peas, some have escaped into the lake of raspberry ripple ice-cream that laps the 100% beef burgers - no barbecue for them.
Opaque eyes of vacuum packed fish stare up at me accusingly. They've waited so long to be consumed. My hand hovers over the flip top bin, relents and turns towards the oven. Neatly packed head to tail the silver skinned four meet their 180degree fate. The cat's dish is full, a happy customer.
The warmth of the sun caresses my face with the pretence of Summer but this is not the intense shimmering heat of the Alpujarras, the heat that cried out for a wide-brimmed hat and a loose cotton caftan, the heat that stole away inhibitions and led naked figures into an icy pool, the heat that lay with me all night in my cloistered bed. Nor is it the swallow brought heat of a rare English Summer, a heat given thanks by picnickers who swim in the cool, peaty river and pretend it's not cold, a smoky heat of barbecue skewers mastered by butcher aproned fathers on tidy patios.
No, this heat us the reluctant guest who throws a backward glance as the party bell chimes the midnight hour. A last lingering look and then it's gone.