Circus Of The Absurdly Fortuitous

Sunday:

Crunching Arthropods

Finding ourselves at a loss, a literal loss of outgoings outweighing incoming expense, we harness Dog and houseguest Fat Beagle for a trawl through the lanes in hot wet tropical weather. Not quite thinking, we have put waterproofs on and drench them from the inside with perspiration. Peeling off coats attracts fly bites. Uncomfortable under the weight of humid air, under the worry of money, under the puncturing attack of binary winged malevolents, cheerless steps squish along: then over a high hedge there arrives a burly dragonfly, in hunt for a lunch of crunchy arthropods.

Later this day, between downpours, we slip the sodden tent from its wrappings and resurrect it in the garden. Mr pegs it out while I boil water for pasta; chop onions, stir a can of tomatoes, think of the dragonfly, the vibrant charge of it.

Monday:

Italics

Even after the clever interventions of Girl’s Boyfriend; the internet works then it doesn’t work. We can’t work out which part of the process is not working. Too much work makes the world dull. Unless the focus is flung open, scattering such niggling detail. I put a flouncy shirt on, engage the inner diva, sparkle under the lit bulb of the object-crowded living room. Without the interference of access of course, once I cease to tussle for it, my focus is electric, vivacious. I rest my sore feet on a chair; core muscles keep posture strong; typed words fly from fingertips; something good this way comes. Until then, I have sequins under the glow of filament, I shiver in the current. 

Tuesday:

Act 3

Prepped for calmness, I make contact with my internet service provider. Under instruction, turn router off. Count to ten, unhurriedly, unconvinced. Up pops the internet. All the frowns spin upside down, faster than a clown’s bowtie. Even Dog looks smiley, but this is a bluff for the guilt of sneaking a sleep on our bed. A rather muddy sleep, after our morning walk around lanes and across fields: Dog took off after a pheasant. Slinky red brown shape of a fox slipped into the sweetcorn stems, startled by the pheasant squawk.

Post slaps happily on the mat while I glimmer by the light of my laptop. The electric company owe me money: money that makes a bridge over our deficit from here to the year’s end.