|Boy, exploring ruins, expressing a spirit of irrepressibility|
Today it has been my fantastical whimsy to deliberately not notice any ordinary miracle moments at all. Dog and me walk the fields, and do throw ball stuff, bag up a poo. Ignore clouds. Even when Mr notes that they are formed over the moors ‘in lines, like the lines of a poem.’ He doesn’t know why I am not rushing to ogle. This is exactly the sort of thing I love to ogle. My parents drop by for cups of tea and a lesson in re-potting the wilty vine. Nearly get drawn into how beautiful the view is. The rolling panoramic sculpture of the moorland peaks… Quick, cast my eyes to the crumbling house. Think of my bank balance…
Mr cooks bolognaise. There is hot water for the bath. There is espresso. I sit outside to start a new illustration, in the sun, and the clouds billow away like sails at a tall ship race.