Suppertime, And The Living Is Easy
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 unrefundable, just the (nonetheless irksomely expensive) credit check administrative charge. I can’t find some of the required credit check paperwork, but alternatives come to hand without the dropping of blood or tears.
The printer does not run out of paper. It clatters out financial details.
I recall the balloon, distinguish in it the escape of flight; and the mouse; the escape of not knowing. My back aches from hunching over the monkey. Tap my statements into a neat edged pile; smile; these fiddly bits, of course, of course, though boring, are of good consequence. Attitude remains the greatest escape.
Mr, me and Boy sit on the sofa as the day gets dim, eating cheese on toast. Fat Beagle snores in his basket. Sleeping Dog, from the armchair, makes huffly noises. The mouse is half full, I think, but the glass metaphor works better. And it doesn’t put you off your supper.