Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Words of laziness and love A day at home. It’s morning. Sat in bed, first coffee drunk. From the window see a frost, a trailing mist. Mr is watching videos of people having self inflicted accidents of which some are engagingly stupid; one admires the ambition, the optimism, the care free higgedly-piggedlyness which pandemic restrictions have currently outlawed. From the window see the sky iced blue, see marigolds in the polytunnel leaning through lime tree branches, too tall to stand alone. I ask for a second coffee. Mr, downstairs, talks to the dog who woke us at dawn but is happy to sofa-nap now till breakfast. Yesterday's marigold harvest.

Mid-November, 2nd Lockdown, Notes: At night I drive home by porches and windows that flutter with fairy lights: the lights of Autumn-Christmas, visual cries through dense uncertainty, celebrations through doubt. How can I not smile? People have hunkered into this second lockdown and not given up, or they have said Meh and given in to the need for shine. There are decorated trees beaming out, bright strings from yard to roof, muted stars.  Bought a cheap but pleasantly coloured diary, (the turquoise side of teal) daring to think about organising next year. Walked Dog up the hill in a late autumn chill, a wave of starlings breaking overhead; the lowing sun, a bewildering array of cloud types, a sliver of waxing moon. She sniffed stories, and I the loamy aroma of rotted leaves. Home again for snacks and writing. Yule Tale 2020... brings back Barry The Shelf Elf. The pandemic has meant changes to the usual ways of doing things. Teleporting presents, holographic elves. All the tests go w

Space for soul work Monday 9th November 2020 It’s write anything day. Tap out words. Thoughts adrift. In my car when I’m in fine voice, no one knows otherwise. I might be pitch perfect. Doesn’t matter. The important thing is to sing if I want to. Write. Always watching the weather, jumping in the mud. Walk my feet into the sea until my shoulders slip under, limbs fold-unfold, swimming. Write anything. Be. Let the cliche be. Doesn’t matter. What matters? Yes the little things, yes the big picture. Making mistakes YES. Be serious. Be fun. Misuse punctuation in the general flow. Beautiful words that come to me when I’m lacking a pen or a keyboard, that will never be replicated, that were either perfect or illusionary, that do or don’t need to be shared: tumble through it. Look but seek nothing. I’m at work, it’s drizzling. Sky a pale blur, all colours softened. Indoors the light is warm and also soft. I’m tired from the hot flushes that are stalking my nights, from the dog’s odd new ob

Words for reaching through uncertainty and facing the winter Hello November, I hope you know what dreams we have for you: some that seem lost all ready, and some that glow like the moon behind the clouds that can yet illuminate this nightscape. November- here you bring your rich warmth, the golds and flames, here the evergreens begin to stand out, here we see bared twigs, the bones of a winter pending. A winter of what, November, will you show us? Hello back, the wind blows. You know the secret of divination: you start where you are. You stand in the stir of the leaves and reach for what you can touch. Dream bigger, yes, always: dream of storms, of calm, of the destination. But make a brick before you make a house, and choose your shelter wisely. Plant a seed before you have a crop- make sure there is a path through it. Lean into my wildness to find yours. Centre that. The rain and the wind, the trees in green or moulting, they go beyond talking, they dance away.

  STINKGHOST Before the smell the most remarkable thing in the room was the Lincrusta wallpaper. A hundred years had passed since it was new and the colours had only deepened. It outshone the chandelier and the gleam of the baby grand. It was richer than the teak of the table, than the velvet chair backs, than the brass candelabra, and far more interesting than the guests who were ponderously working their way through the third course. That night the regular chef had called in sick. No one was sure who the replacement was but this stand-in was burly and the room fully booked so nothing was said, not even when the menu was subject to some unauthorised alterations. Out went the... amuse-bouche egg. Out went the... tripe terrine with the onion bread. Out went the... oily fish curry. Strong flavours, soft textures, dull colours- perked with pea shoots and grated roots, all served up in the quiet room. Conversation was muted at best, barely more than the odd grunt between bouts of puckery

Grounding With Words And Details Wednesday 7th October 2020 I have of late been in a slump, feeling stuck. Better today. Small actions help. Noticing stuff helps - today a squirrel with a mouthful of acorn stopped to stare at me and that is a definite boost. One does not always have a squirrel to summon but clouds, sunsets, the sound of rain: things the senses can appreciate, they keep a person grounded and they slowly build me back. Sunday 11th October 2020 Sat in bed, drinking coffee. Yesterday a rainbow struck the shed, this morning there is an ice-blue sky with white cloud in solid curls. I can see the outline of the pine, hear a pair of birds cackle, hear my washing machine whirling. The usual pigeons are absent. I am thinking of having a swim before work. The sea is still warm-ish, as is the land and the general air temperature, the windchill factor is upping. I endeavour to keep a suitably packed swim kit with me at all times. If I do swim I will be tacky from salt all day,

Words From A Work In Progress Through the rush of lockdown (care worker, more hours, no furlough, more wages for the land fund though, pros and cons) my brain has been boggled with various challenges and writing has been done in tiny bursts, scattered about like seeds out of a himalayan balsam. Concentration is returning. This part-written book has bided time, but it is creeping back to pestering me for attention, which I pretend to be annoyed by but is a heartfelt homecoming. So here is a little share from the end of chapter 3, where Old Annish is reliving her second birthday. No context, no spoilers: the plot is mostly untangled now but it could all change yet.    ***  In the first photograph she is cute, though frowning - the smiles around her are reassuring. Old Annish smiles too. She has always liked these pictures. Early memories, she thinks, are pivot-edges, where stories you are told of yourself pitch into personal recall. It’s how you become real. Details, even if they aren’t