Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

All day, a hot day threatens rain. Sky is cast solid in dulled silver. Next door’s bear shaped dog escapes across the fields. Next door here is across the valley, so I lug both hounds over with me to return the miscreant. The last days of rain have rebogged the turf, I tread carefully on the roots of the whip-bladed marsh grass and return with both boots. Dog has mud gloves to mid leg, gets just enough purchase to leap the gate. Longwools flounce up the path, turn to peer down at us. They appear to be made out of old frayed rope, a line of comic puppets.  Taller than the top of my head, the finely spiked Scottish thistles have rotund buds, purple dotted, they follow you like eyeballs. Taller than all the thistles, magnificent foxgloves make hypnotic sway. Wild roses have sparser flowers then the domestic kind; I catch one, to feel the cool softness of it on hot skin. Can’t help looking to see if the thistles are following us. Because it’s hot, because of the ponderous sky, beca

Art by Girl, circa 1992.  Two potato waffles, toasted grids, lie on my plate. I envy their structure and boxy angles. I have served peas in a slinging motion, they are all over the place, like some swirling far off galaxy we don’t know the rules of yet. Delicious ellipses of gammon are flopped on top. I have made this meal from leftover things foraged from fridge and freezer. There is no room in my head for anything more complicated; that space is full of colliding furniture. Here, created on my plate, is a statement of deranged thought, I think. The meat represents my brain, broiled to tenderness by over thinking. I think it best not to voice this statement until after we have eaten. Have drunk enough espresso to be frightened for my health. Calmed down by access to a verdant sprawl of shushing trees, cooling spools of field. Follow the thread of greenery gratefully back to earth. One year from now, this collision of furniture, and the galaxy of peas, will be forgotten. My bra

The label is long gone, but the dress, if I remember my surprise accurately, was made from acetate. Plucked from the rail of a Wakefield charity shop, paid for with a precious £5 note. The dark silver reminded me of Great-Gran’s gunmetal broach. Made its one formal debut; ankle length old school glamour; at the college ball. Performance being an integral part of life’s creative experiment during these college years, toying with ideas of invisible theatre, I became a Sequin Sister, an impromptu dancing double act liable to pop up on any available platform and promote the joys of spontaneity. There were, it being a double act, at least two of us. Capability F Sequin, named after the landscaper, the initial F representing a family name. And me… indecisive, unnamed. Until Girl, not quite school age, holds up a new teddy, and this one, she says, is called Silver Betty. Such serendipity! I even possess a silver dress. Being limited with skills and patience, the dress is roughly cra

On this day, some years ago, Boy was born. He did not cry, only looked at the world exactly as though we had woken him up but, never mind, he had been thinking of waking up anyway. His nose resembled a strawberry and his hair was a chimney brush. He grew into the nose. The hair changed colour and texture but still grew upwards and outwards, thick enough to plait a rope to hold a battleship to a dock. He would keep it short on a regular basis had he not irregular parents who easily forget hair appointments. They like DIY hair, which has resulted in some minor injuries, which has resulted in a boycotting of home salon efforts. Mother of Boy takes the prize for Most Stupid Coiffeur, Amateur Division, having absentmindedly shaved Boy’s head bald. That day, Boy was about eight years younger, a slender little chap. Mother, Girl and Boy went on a grand day out to Castle Drogo, and everywhere people said ‘Oh, no, after you, please.’ Because they thought Boy might be having chemotherapy. Be

In residence on the couch, me and my phlegmatic cough observe the world through a square of glass. Fronds of rose and berberis gesticulate clues to the fluctuating wind speed. This is the only land in sight, the rest is sky; sky with a thick silver skin. Last night the fire was lit, the storm squall yowled, turbulence turned as flame, as lashed rain, as though we were swallowed, washed into the belly of some rumbling febrile beast. By lamp light, take up a pen, commit to feverish scrawling: the most interesting of which, in the silvery sheen of the morning, reads ‘Ego is a cute knickknack, a gift, a unique view to form part of a whole.’ Thinking of knickknacks and notebooks, look to the over stacked bookshelves. Here are references no longer referred to; and there are my pink secateurs, which should be with the gardening tools, surely? Still, lends itself to a pruning metaphor. Now the metaphors are getting over stacked. I need cough medicine and an editor. While I roll my eyes at

From the bedroom window I watch treetops churning in a storm. I love how patterns in nature repeat; how these leaves move like rough surf, how a mountain range from an aeroplane view looks like rock pools.  Sheep have lowered themselves to the grass, under cover of fleeces, away from flailing branches. The window would be open but the wind has palmed it shut. Monday’s wind chill has morphed into a frustrating Thursday illness. My temperature will not keep still. Sat in bed, with gluey brain, dangerously unoccupied. This house is exasperating, and damp and creaky and impractical, and being put to auction, we have to let it go: but it has never stopped being interesting. The picture from this window shakes with elemental life. The weather and my burning head conspire to make melancholy. Will I fit in the neat cottage, in the sanitary, well-kept interior I have only seen once in my whole life? Doubts sneak back in, like the damn rats, over a dropped guard. We live here as in a life s

Venus transverses the Sun, paddles a jet coracle over an ocean of golden fire. She appears a lesser goddess, pushing across the fulsome diameter, and a brave goddess, venturing over pluming flames. This is the view from above the clouds of Cornwall this morning: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-17745366 As we rumble from sleep to bicycle ride, wakeful rain rushes to us, excitable, invigorated, as though it has been witness to the planet’s rare transit, precipitates the news. Work traffic streams by, a river of routine. The supermarket car park is filling up, makes a flotilla of car roofs beneath the path. Pedals spin, wheels whir, stirs up a smile. I am not supposed to be riding a bike on the pavement but the lorries are colossal and no people are close by. They are all at a distance, looking smaller than they are. Here is one, negotiating an overloaded trolley towards the boot of her car. She is barely the size of my thumb, tacking, determined, over wet tarmac, under

Dreamt a perfect piece of writing; so brilliant, it brings me out of sleep to locate my notepad, slip out of the bedroom, sit by a lamp, record the words. The words stay in sleep, they don’t follow me, even onto the shallowest shores of wakefulness. A few images drift; a wooden spoon, a metallic blue Fifties Cadillac. It’s 5am, I return to sleep. The experience repeats, at 8am, only the images differ, only I stay awake this time. We can all write perfection in our sleep. As the kettle boils, I puzzle out a connection between spoon and car. A wooden spoon stirs up butter, sugar, flour, eggs, creates a latent cake. Cake and Cadillac, both celebratory symbols, some logic is evident. Dreams, like puzzles, I regard, partly, as prompters of self-centred insularity, so I don’t tend to dwell on either too much. A reaction, maybe, to being a writer, pulling every experience through a quizzical mind: equilibrium is essential, some time in which to mend the net. Sit with coffee. Rain falls in

In the winter, you can close your eyes on Saunton Sands and run. You navigate by the sound of waves. I have never yet made the blind sprint without laughing; in spite of the cold, my shoes are off, my feet get a cold burn, I hear Dog padding nearby. My broken foot hurts, but I can’t resist, the rush is worth the hurt. In the summer, the plain of sands is peopled. They are not bothering me, I don’t resent them, I wouldn’t send them all home: it makes for a different experience, that’s all. The water is warm. I wade in with Dog till she paddles beside me. She swims around the bustle of shore craft; the short boards, the body boards, one kayak, the mini-mals and the long boards. These summer people are in wetsuits, wisely, considering the wind-chill factor. On dry sand the summer people have windbreaks, deck chairs, beach blankets, buckets. Paraphernalia. It is worth having, if you use it and if you enjoy it; for what it is not how it makes you look. This is what I decide as I am sat

Because I decide to get my daily writing practice ticked off the list in good time, go out with Dog to hunt for an idea. Along the middle path lies a cleaned up piece of bone, sheep thigh, I think, a bin forage not a kill.  Flick it into a bramble with the toe of my boot, uncertain, preoccupied. Shall I write of this? What shall I write about?  The answer to this question must come to me: if I chase it, it turns to mirage.  Surrounded by peaceful swaying greenery, I stand, listen to the leaves say ‘shhhh.’ The idea is here, it grows towards me. It is the greenery, growing, closing up the lane. Two or so years ago, Farmer Landlord borrowed back the petrol strimmer previously left for lane maintenance. He was bringing it back. Half a mile of hedgerow seems like a lot when you trim it by hand. As a rare experience, not unpleasant: as a chore, it makes your body ache. Since we know we are leaving, we have let it go. Nothing is kept in order, things disappear. The granite trough, the ro

One year ago today, out swam Baby into a pool of warm water and a room of worn-out, overwhelmed, awestruck women. It’s a baby! We are dumbfounded like we had no idea. Being at the very first breath of a life has that effect. It’s weird enough that matter reproduces matter, but that a real person appears, a formative social being? Every single time: tremulous incredulity. The baby, likewise, is astonished, having no experience yet of the potential for boredom that some people find within the spectrum of existence. This is the very beginning of learning to perceive: making a relationship between light and shade, between presence and noise, between comfort and discomfort. Baby aged one year is pleased to be in the park, with toys and cake and sandwiches and people she recognizes as part of her life. She closes her eyes when the sky is too full of light. Tips her head when the breeze lifts her hair. Folded cardboard has words and pictures, like books, so she reads them. Her interpre

[I like to pick an approach, each month, rather than a theme, for my writing to play with. Through May, I played with keeping this blog like a diary. I write everyday, so picking the day’s events as inspiration brings a constant flow of material. I write everyday, for the practice with words, and for the practice with attitude. The more I train myself to see the inimitable nature of stuff, situations and sentient beings, the more my contentedness flows. My world evolves, ever more marvelous. So, through June, I intend to make the unique view a more specific focus.] Bunting cooks in windows or is hung to cool off in the breeze. It spiders out from the War Memorial, zig-zags every street. It matches my mood in brightness, because the phone call from the letting agency was to agree a moving date. Tomorrow is Coronation Day, tomorrow is Baby’s first ever birthday, a week tomorrow is Boy’s sixteenth birthday, two weeks tomorrow we move to Lawhitton. Red, white and blue in variations of s

Engines running, while wheels are stuck static in a traffic rut. I spy a scale of negative facial arrangements. Blank. Bored. Submissive. Resigned. Irritated. Aggravated. Angry. Here and there, music plays, a happy carload bounces with seated dances and karaoke voices howl from wound down windows. My guess is correct. They are indeed, young people. I hope they can keep this feeling, not as a nostalgia; as a sustained part of their older lives. My least favoured expression; on a face, in a voice, lurking in a mind; is dissatisfaction. It is the enemy of appreciation. Mr is facing the enemy today, trying to track down a parcel, following a trail of expensive unhelpful phone numbers. He is already irritated. On a number of occasions I too have made a customer service manager feel like they have earned their annual salary in just one day. ‘No, I’m afraid I did not make a record of the name of the employee to whom I spoke. This is because I was under the delusion that you employed comp

Checking emails: spam, selling stuff, Facebook birthday list, and a reply. Craig from Buglife ( www.buglife.org.uk ) identifying the Jewelwing we thought we saw as a native Beautiful Demoiselle. Calopteryx Virgo, though not rare in this habitat, does not disappoint.  ( http://british-dragonflies.org.uk/species/beautiful-demoiselle ) Spiders weave webs, or hunt, they plot, they stalk, they trap. They cannibalise freely for they are not obviously sentimental. But over the fields each year, the web pod nurseries are fixed into grass clumps, keeping the spider young safe. Ants are many acting as one, sublimated to purpose, a society of absorbed co-operation. Bees speak to each other in a language of dance. Woodlice are an early design, a segmented ancientness. Metamorphic invertebrates are my favourites, for their symbolism. Head brimful of glittering wings, of flight paths, lazily drive into town. There are traffic lights at the double roundabout. A colourful configuration of cars are

Over the fields this morning, a hot air balloon. It is the shape of a light bulb, like the valley has just had an idea. Tethered to Fat Beagle, I follow far behind, along the top path, the closest I can get to climbing into the basket. Dog, who can be trusted to return, runs free. Fat Beagle is pleased to be out on the tasty sheep poo snack trail. The chunky tail wags. Foxgloves are in flower, vertical globules of pinkish purple. We all go back to the house for some wholesome breakfast. Under a wide brimmed hat, I sit, legs tucked under the pallet table, to finish shading the picture of the ink-drinking monkey. Last time I was out here the wind stole my eraser. All I could find on the ground nearby was a half chewed mouse. This did not seem a fair exchange, not for me, nor mouse. The air does not move, today, and the little body lies still in situ. It transpires, from Mr’s venturing into town, that the letting agency write badly worded letters. The whole big scary amount is not u

From the collection 'Sublimely Cheerful Postcards' Last night, I read this quote, and then, of course, had to write. Curtain Call was my first title idea, but this morning I prefer ‘Encore;’ it holds the sense of something to continue. The metaphor shifts, but the sense of tiredness is sustained, so the title is all that I have changed: ‘I have forced myself to begin writing when I've been utterly exhausted, when I've felt my soul as thin as a playing card, when nothing has seemed worth enduring for another five minutes... and somehow the activity of writing changes everything. Or appears to do so’. Joyce Carol Oates I could write all night. But then I would be tired. Thinking of sitting here, with the window open, just tapping out all the changes in the air. But there are other things that need my attention. Time to shut down, conserve energy, regroup my scatty, distracted self. But, first, a little light writing to direct my dreams. Stream out some sentences,

The window is open all night. Whatever the weather did then, I slept through it. Woke to coolness, to a low sky of watercolour greys. Boy is up, eating cheese on toast. Boy looks at his watch. His morning routine is breakfast and cop drama. This morning some fanatical plot to reintroduce smallpox is not quite foiled yet. In principle, I do not like tv and breakfast. In practice, Boy relaxes happy before hitting the exam desk. ‘You can have a lift,’ I say, stirring soya milk into a bowl of oats. My breakfast is paler than the sky. The big news today should be the big cheque handed to the letting agent. If we don’t pass the credit check, there is no refund. At this point, homeless and penniless thoughts haunt every level of our minds. One attends to practical acts to appease uneasy spirits, such as the dogs need walking, then we should write a menu plan. As we are striding across the corner of the lowest field, out of habit eyeing up wood sources, a marvellous thing flies by, a dar

Hard gummed Baby, slimed in drool, falls deceivingly swiftly to sleep. The heat or the teeth or an unknown third option turns the night into a series of walks connecting bed and cot. As birdsong trebles through an open window, Baby is wedged into bed between grandparents. As the sun rises, she sits up, claps hands, slaps Mr Grandad on the shoulder. Rain falls heavy, it’s still hot, the birds call. Downstairs the clock reads 5.55am. Baby rubs a piece of jammy toast over her hair. I reach for a mug the size of a god’s forearm. My sense of scale is half asleep. But it is a big mug. It is filled with a quagmire of coffee. At this hour, caffeine is best served with cartoons. Mostly dabbed clean of blackcurrant, Baby bobs about the room, delighted by two dogs, a drawer of toy cars, a spoon and a brick. She miscalculates clearance height under the coffee table; refuses comfort; demands comfort; slouches slowly to sleep. Granma slow motion slouches too, after correctly guessing the Scooby

Yesterday’s brain, under surface calm assertions, sounded like this: ‘Oh. The twenty-sixth day of May? We could be moving house in four days. Four days, or five? Five years since I started stripping the bedroom wallpaper, but we never had the money for paint. While Boy is doing his exams? We have no boxes. Will the big cheque clear in time? To give notice requires 30 days. Where did I leave my coffee? Stop eating sheep poo, Fat Beagle!’ Farmer Landlord phones that evening: ‘That’s fine dear, you sort yourself out. Take your time over it- that’s fine, yes, no, don’t pay us any more rent, that’s fine. Longer someone stays in the property, the better for us, if you see what I mean.’ Quick words construct sentences. Regret in every pause. Apologetic kindness. Advantageous sympathy. Assuming, self-assuredly, the sought cottage is rented to us, between there and here, a buffering state is mapped. Out comes the elderflower champagne, it flowers effusively all over the kitchen floor.

Heat follows me into the house. Around the edges of the fields fleece-laden sheep graze shaded grass. Fat Beagle, our houseguest for the week, struggles to clamber up to the cool sofa leather. Dog watches derisively. She curls her lips when he wanders close. She curls up next to him when he whimpers. Not love and hate; comfort and scorn. I make coffee and leave it to cool. I fetch my laptop from the cupboard that is my office. It is an old Mac, bought with a redundancy payout in 2006. I dropped it once, halting the terrible fall with my broken foot: literally, a painful experience. The casing fractured. The plastic splinter is still held in place by a sticker from a Thornton’s chocolate. Thus it became an object both useful and quirky. Stuff I own is on my mind, today. I will not classify it as a painful occurrence, but I do not deny being discomforted. Moving from a sprawling crumble of a house, to a neat cottage, not all of our possessions will fit. I believe that life is more