Lovely days in June can’t be depended on. You have to seize them. So it was when I collected Ilse from school and bumped into the others, flying home on their bicycles in their shirtsleeves, ties flapping in the wind. We didn’t go home at all, but instead to the park, where we had tea and buns in the little cafe and we all had a go on the pedal boats. The drakes strutted about on the concrete edges of the lake, losing their dignity the minute a child appeared with bread to throw. A man rode round with his trike of ices. And we spread blazers and cardigans on the cool green grass and lay back and drank in the sunshine.
We don’t often just head out like this, abandoning the tea I had prepared, leaving the laundry flapping on the line. We found a public telephone box and rang John, telling him of our plans, asking him to join us. He arrived just in time for the last of the evening warmth, as the park began to empty.
When we got home there was supper to put on, ironing to fold, prep and piano practice that had to be done, all in a jumble at once. But never mind. This is all part of my summer plan, breaking up the tedium and the tiredness with something unexpected. Nothing special, or expensive. Just a trip to the park, one evening in June.
— June 15, 1932