Friday night, a jug of rum.
Lawhitton.
We creep to our garden and spy on the frost.
It feels like dreams can find you better, if you go out into the dark.
Saturday morning, sat on the porch step, numbing buttocks, drinking coffee. Morning sun makes steam plumes along grassed edges. Sky wakes up all tumbled, bits of cloud, blue, mist, squints of sun.
Mr sleeps in, wrapped in dream and quilt.
When he wakes up, just as tumbled as the sky, he calls to come and see: a robin has snuck into our kitchen, to spy on us.
So tiny, that bird, we see: the world so big and wintry. With boldness he thrives. We admire.
It stays warm, the sun, we sit out, drink more coffee.
And one more coffee.
Saturday afternoon, all of a sudden. We forgot about time.
Launceston.
In the carpark, stuck in a queue, making alternative plans: a space, all of a sudden. Free parking, the sign says. This is encouraging.
In the town hall doting families gather. Children can be heard through the closed doors, practising their dances.
In we shuffle: three lots of grandparents, two aunties, one mum-and-dad combo. We spot her, the Little Granddaughter, waiting at the stage steps, red tinsel in her hair.
She waves. She waves all the way to the stage where she also shouts hello to her personal crowd.
Halfway through the number her tinsel falls out. She is not trained in what to do when your costume fails. Instinct guides her to pick up the tinsel and shove it up her t-shirt, for which she steals applause.
Her family are convinced: performance genius.
Saturday evening smells of charcoal and chicken.
Winscombe.
Words fold maps into story-boats. A river is poured from bottles.
Impromptu naps gather until they reach full dimensions of sleep.
Saturday drifts away. Lights blink in trees. Fleet brown trout are in the stream. Stars in the cold sky.
Sunday morning comes with generous breakfast, with coffee of notable strength.
A friendly brown cat wanders over the tabletop, seeking attention.
But Mr is learning to owl-call and I am copying how to origami a dragon.
Time nudges us out of the door.
Sunday afternoon.
We drive to Granma Grace’s house, we drink tea.
Exeter.
We tell her she’s impossible- what could she want for a Christmas gift? She wants nothing but love and perhaps a modest pot of jam. Rosehips are mentioned. Could we deliver some presents for her? Yes, of course. And there’s a problem with the new phone, but she shouldn’t bother us. We are strict. We say everyone loves to help you. We will fix your phone, deliver your presents, make you jam and all of it is love.
She giggles.
Exmouth.
We take the presents, put them out of reach of Fat Beagle. The Littlest Grandson toddles, step after confident step. The Littlest Granddaughter marches, she holds out her hands, open, saying her favoured word: ‘Share.’
Lawhitton.
We creep to our garden and spy on the frost.
It feels like dreams can find you better, if you go out into the dark.
Saturday morning, sat on the porch step, numbing buttocks, drinking coffee. Morning sun makes steam plumes along grassed edges. Sky wakes up all tumbled, bits of cloud, blue, mist, squints of sun.
Mr sleeps in, wrapped in dream and quilt.
When he wakes up, just as tumbled as the sky, he calls to come and see: a robin has snuck into our kitchen, to spy on us.
So tiny, that bird, we see: the world so big and wintry. With boldness he thrives. We admire.
It stays warm, the sun, we sit out, drink more coffee.
And one more coffee.
Saturday afternoon, all of a sudden. We forgot about time.
Launceston.
In the carpark, stuck in a queue, making alternative plans: a space, all of a sudden. Free parking, the sign says. This is encouraging.
In the town hall doting families gather. Children can be heard through the closed doors, practising their dances.
In we shuffle: three lots of grandparents, two aunties, one mum-and-dad combo. We spot her, the Little Granddaughter, waiting at the stage steps, red tinsel in her hair.
She waves. She waves all the way to the stage where she also shouts hello to her personal crowd.
Halfway through the number her tinsel falls out. She is not trained in what to do when your costume fails. Instinct guides her to pick up the tinsel and shove it up her t-shirt, for which she steals applause.
Her family are convinced: performance genius.
Saturday evening smells of charcoal and chicken.
Winscombe.
Words fold maps into story-boats. A river is poured from bottles.
Impromptu naps gather until they reach full dimensions of sleep.
Saturday drifts away. Lights blink in trees. Fleet brown trout are in the stream. Stars in the cold sky.
Sunday morning comes with generous breakfast, with coffee of notable strength.
A friendly brown cat wanders over the tabletop, seeking attention.
But Mr is learning to owl-call and I am copying how to origami a dragon.
Time nudges us out of the door.
Sunday afternoon.
We drive to Granma Grace’s house, we drink tea.
Exeter.
We tell her she’s impossible- what could she want for a Christmas gift? She wants nothing but love and perhaps a modest pot of jam. Rosehips are mentioned. Could we deliver some presents for her? Yes, of course. And there’s a problem with the new phone, but she shouldn’t bother us. We are strict. We say everyone loves to help you. We will fix your phone, deliver your presents, make you jam and all of it is love.
She giggles.
Exmouth.
We take the presents, put them out of reach of Fat Beagle. The Littlest Grandson toddles, step after confident step. The Littlest Granddaughter marches, she holds out her hands, open, saying her favoured word: ‘Share.’
She will eat her tea, she gestures, if she can be in charge of the spoon.
He disdains the confines of a chair. He accepts the post of Granma’s lap.
Each makes good work of eating.
They have hair like haloes.
Little Grandson sneaks in. He wears his rugby top. He does not like broccoli, even if it does give you rugby muscles. His favourite food is pasta. Grandad guessed right.
Sunday evening.
Lawhitton.
The house, of course, a mess. A fabulous mess.
Low on coal and cheese.
We eat fish-fingers.
I write about it.
He disdains the confines of a chair. He accepts the post of Granma’s lap.
Each makes good work of eating.
They have hair like haloes.
Little Grandson sneaks in. He wears his rugby top. He does not like broccoli, even if it does give you rugby muscles. His favourite food is pasta. Grandad guessed right.
Sunday evening.
Lawhitton.
The house, of course, a mess. A fabulous mess.
Low on coal and cheese.
We eat fish-fingers.
I write about it.
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