Time And Toast
A disappointment with the cornflakes is soon forgot. Godson loves marmite and butter toast. He also loves Dog, who benefits from a slyly dropped crust. We make plans to view some cows (not many of those wander through his city life) and go off the path adventuring in the woods. He has a sonic screwdriver and I have some pruning shears. For now though I drive my houseguests into the wet slap of a small February town, leave them to continue the rounds of visits and I'll get them back all dizzy and in need of a rest tomorrow.
All the spare bedding is persuaded back into the airing cupboard, a tangled solid mess that makes me feel like I've just hidden a body.
There's a suitcase in my front room, a gauzy cerise bow wrapped at the handle to make it easy to locate from a train's luggage stackpoints. Several times this morning I look up from typing and smile at it.
And then work time appears on the clock: the day has been swallowed up as crafty and swift as Dog took the crust.
|'One crust? I'll just lie here, wasting away.'|