From The Second Floor, A Mattress Is Gleefully Pushed

Sunday: Stumped by the internet, a repetition of which we are quite bored. Metaphorically, head meets wall. Head meets wall again. Head aches. Wall remains incommunicative.

Sunshine bakes our wearied faces as we shift more loads to the tip. Each fling and release of bin sack, broken box, bit of unmendable thing into the regrettable landfill, each ditch of a reusable item to the recyclable container, takes some stress with it. On the home journey, wind the car windows down, watch Dog’s ears cavort in the air current. At home, eat pudding outside. Home-grown raspberries. Fat trunked ash tree reaches into the blue. Sparrows fetch their fledglings supper.

Monday: The internet we do not speak of. The heat is mentioned. The car is loaded, unloaded, grime builds an underlayer, a slime between skin and cotton, it smells like earthy hard work. These are the last days of toil; this is mentioned.

Tuesday: Charging up for a sprint finish. When I was a child we seemed to move house every weekend: I loved it, the sense of momentum, the discoveries of new quirks to opening doors. A pinch of this remains. From the second floor, a mattress is gleefully pushed. These flingings are fun. But in such a day of heated grit, the germs of fatigue multiply swiftly. I am struck down by an illness of humour. The cure, however, is simple- after coffee on the lawn, me and Dog park up at Widemouth South, hurdle from the car, shoes and sense abandoned, cavort fully clothed into the froth and frisk of an incoming tide.