Wednesday 25 September 2019
Not everything gets written down - sometimes I think I’ll have a Virginia Woolf day and scribe the way thoughts wash around here. Sometimes I think I will report on all factual happenings and it would be no less absurd. Stuff about river weed, rum shots, lost shoes and breast milk: that was Saturday night, although I, blamelessly babysitting, was introduced to these circumstances early on Sunday morning. Sunday, sans sleep: scraping strength from somewhere to view my daughter’s next home, a largish cottage with a spread of neglected garden perfect for wild children and rum-weary adults.
Monday: it is the Equinox. I am at work. Co-worker, client and me sit in the car, on Falmouth’s sea-front, letting the wind rock us, listening to the rain.
Meanwhile, most other days, Mr and I clump around bogland, farmland, overpriced land, looking for our land. Yesterday the common reeds at an edge of woods shook themselves into a young roe deer. This patch would do but we either we felt no passion for it or we have become numbed to even sensible potential, even with the enticement of prancing wildlife.
On the way home we stopped to pretend we could afford to buy an old chapel - which we did love. We are not immune!
‘Bring it to us, Universe, please.’ Says I, launching another online search, finding suddenly a slew of lovable places.
Meanwhile, at the house move, I am back to babysitting, rocking a teething but smiling Grandchild 7 into a snooze while his toddler sister, sporting a jaunty facial bruise, finds a left over half-cup of tea to paint the wall with, before washing her hair and sharing the dregs with her toy pug-dog. On the way home I rescue the rusted trampette.
This morning; brave me fighting off a cough with blackberry vinegar; Dog and I take a stroll by the Exe before spending our day looking after Granma Grace.
Above the traffic laden bridge, a rainbow briefly lives.
Not everything gets written down - sometimes I think I’ll have a Virginia Woolf day and scribe the way thoughts wash around here. Sometimes I think I will report on all factual happenings and it would be no less absurd. Stuff about river weed, rum shots, lost shoes and breast milk: that was Saturday night, although I, blamelessly babysitting, was introduced to these circumstances early on Sunday morning. Sunday, sans sleep: scraping strength from somewhere to view my daughter’s next home, a largish cottage with a spread of neglected garden perfect for wild children and rum-weary adults.
Monday: it is the Equinox. I am at work. Co-worker, client and me sit in the car, on Falmouth’s sea-front, letting the wind rock us, listening to the rain.
Meanwhile, most other days, Mr and I clump around bogland, farmland, overpriced land, looking for our land. Yesterday the common reeds at an edge of woods shook themselves into a young roe deer. This patch would do but we either we felt no passion for it or we have become numbed to even sensible potential, even with the enticement of prancing wildlife.
On the way home we stopped to pretend we could afford to buy an old chapel - which we did love. We are not immune!
‘Bring it to us, Universe, please.’ Says I, launching another online search, finding suddenly a slew of lovable places.
Meanwhile, at the house move, I am back to babysitting, rocking a teething but smiling Grandchild 7 into a snooze while his toddler sister, sporting a jaunty facial bruise, finds a left over half-cup of tea to paint the wall with, before washing her hair and sharing the dregs with her toy pug-dog. On the way home I rescue the rusted trampette.
This morning; brave me fighting off a cough with blackberry vinegar; Dog and I take a stroll by the Exe before spending our day looking after Granma Grace.
Above the traffic laden bridge, a rainbow briefly lives.
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