Cone
headed Dog is on a restricted walking programme. She is on the leash and off
the grass, while her belly hosts a row of Frankenweenie stitches. These are not
her favourite circumstances, but we take a walk up through Lawhitton which is
different and smells different and thus adds interest to the restricted day. We
meet a gentleman who extols the virtues of a stiff walk, who tells us that the
water has dropped from the moors and the river has come out. Old language
converges with new meaning: I picture a river full of gaily proud spangled
bikinis, but on looking, the brown fields of flood water lie flat.
Most
of the day I make tiny marks with my drawing pens, bringing depth to cute
pictures. My shoulder aches and a bath, a hot bath is what I want. When I get
to it though, it's run out of heat. Warm enough to wash. Meanwhile, I think of
things that people like to write in lists, desirous things to do in a lifetime.
If you get to the top of the mountain (literal or metaphorical) and it isn't
what you hoped for, I reason, then think what it was you hoped for, and forget
the mountain. It was warmth I was wanting, here: I can dress warm instead. What
else is on my list, I wonder, I've not thought of it for so long. A night in an
Ice Hotel; yes, I should like to try that; speed upstairs shivery damp under a
towel; the window has been open all day.
Comments
Ice hotel? Here, you have my night...and a food package.