On
this chill bright day, we have been part of a babble (the word team almost works, but babble is closest)
helping Girl and Baby move house. Granny Meg was also celebrating a birthday,
so we had oven fresh pasties (Girl burnt her arm) and cake and cups of tea, in
between the collapsing of furniture and ferrying of boxes and mixing up
messages about what should be placed where and who has the key for which door
of which abode.
Baby cried when her toy box was carried away. She
has no idea what the purpose of the day is. The new house has a garden and she
likes this very much. At teatime, she rides in her big pink car seat, singing nearly-words,
to Mrs Granma's house. There is lamb stew waiting in the Rayburn. Granny Meg
sneaks her a bit of chocolate cake. Outside the night rises, the temperature
drops, the moon is an ice blue sculpture. Mr Grandad puts extra blankets in the
travel cot.
There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...


Comments
Lils, I swear I think I can hear them.