Bon Été, Bon Été …

 
»Summer is gone.«

The llama is leaning, almost hanging over the balustrade of the roof-terrace of our penthouse on the roof-top of the apartment building on 666 Whitaker Lane in Bromford, the friendly town by the bay and seaside, trying to spit and hit passer-bys on the street below.

»No, you are mistaking, animal. Today is the beginning of summer, not the end. And stop spitting. That is really gross.«

»I am not talking about any seasons here, dude«, the llama answers. »Summer is a poodle, the pet-dog of Mrs Arabella Figg from across the street.«

»How come you know someone from across the street?« I ask sceptically. »We live in a big city. Nobody knows neighbours from across the street in big cities. We don't even know all the people that are living in our own house here at 666 Whitaker Lane.«

»Talk for yourself, dude. But you kind of got me. I have stolen the name Arabella Figg from those Harry Potter novels. But she was more like a cat-woman and not that much into dogs. But I just hit that fluffy poodle-dog down there on the sidewalk with a huge amount of fluid from my mouth. I named it Summer and it ran away. See? So I am not wrong when I am saying Summer is gone.«

»Stop spitting from the roof, llama«, I yell. »And stop hitting poor poodles or noodles or anything like that!«

»Okay, okay, dude.«

The llama is slowy walking away from the balustrade towards the now empty fish-bassin to take a sip of the kind of stinky water.

»Someone really is having a bad temper these days.«

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Today is Friday, the 20th of June 2025.