It’s pure gold.

Or silver.

A layer of fresh cream or soy foam dazzle.

Then calculate the number of slices.

Invite the ideal, original-thinking, dinner guests.

Another memo-worthy memory!

Feels like sailing.

Climbing, a descending hill.

The bakery was hot and a fresh pastry aroma filled the space.

Back in the pool under the trees, the occasional ripe orange fell.

Summer clothes and a safety helmet are all that is needed.

There were two ways of getting to the same place.

We chose a third.

The result was good.

But because nobody had considered this, no one knew where we were.

It was quiet, our names were unknown.

Fame still snuck in like a teenage gate-crasher.

Bright orange light from within the warehouse.

Flowers would grow here. Those from warmer climes.

Dapper younger people burnishing tightly rolled brollies.

Toys with air conditioned glove boxes.

Who’s got the gloves?

It seemed wet.

Slippery or ice cream?

When we awoke it was daylight.

The dream had revealed a map showing where the treasure was buried.

The cook made breakfast the same way as yesterday day.

Some things do change, perhaps some don’t.