House Of The Aptly Shambolic
Hail strike on windowpanes wakes us before the day has begun; one of those frustrating days where simple tasks are complex traps although no crockery slips off the draining board and tea is prepared in time and there are moments where rainbows loop themselves in cloud even if Dog sighs, disappointed in a shortened walk; my phone case is easily mended and Little Granddaughter says 'So'ry Nam-ma,' unasked, sincerely.
(So'ry being word ointment for situations in which, somehow, something is broken or food or beverage, somehow, makes contact with carpet.)
It feels colder than the gauge reports. The night sky is clear, in part; three quarters of a rotund moon exquisitely visible.
On the way home we stop to buy milk. Car park trees, shivery in the wind chill stand isolate, planted apace.
Home is warm, dishevelled; has a smell of coal smoke, wet dogs, boiled vegetables. It is, in short, a suitable mess.