This
morning, three stems of fluffed blonde pampas grass were flicked over the car
roof. A car looks preposterous with a wig. Mr collects some extra eyebrows on
the lane walk, in threads of spider silk.
‘Is
it fake hair day?’ I ask but he only laughs.
We
have four wild strawberries each and clear sight of the river mist.
This
is the prequel, but not to fake hair day. It’s trolley bay day.
Mr
has been clever, asking the supermarket refit manager what will happen to the
old trolley bays. We are allocated two. He has put his budget greenhouse plan
into action by hiring a van, and then we have panicked. We love the plan, a
sublime blend of sensible, imaginative and ratchet spanners, and then there’s
that dredging background static, the wearisome fear, the miserable part of a
low end income: we can’t afford it, we will be caught too short, in
desperation, sink in debt.
We’ve
done it, though, we’ve hired the van, we’re in the car park, wrestling nuts and
bolts and several metres of Perspex. A few scrapes and bruises, a lot of hours
later, we seem to have won. Boy comes to help, on his way home, steps under the
penultimate Perspex sheet in time for the best drama, as a steel arch appears
to fall on our heads. It frightens the onlookers, and we are shaken up, even as
we are laughing. This fear is exhilarating, liberating. After, ‘oh, it missed,’
there is only one thought in my head: ‘I’m not afraid to fail.’
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