Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

All day marvellous words pour through my head to describe the sounds, sights, and scents of nature. This morning a light frost was laid out for our delectation, harming no flowers, stilting no birdsong. I have energy to get gardening, to plan, to write the novel, but daily life is scarcely reported upon in spite of how it describes itself to me. We are tentatively out of lockdown, allowed to meet outside in socially distanced groups of up to 6. We are allowed to teach outdoors, numbers limited by space, keeping a 2 metre gap between students (unless they are a family bubble). At home we have the gazebo set up with a picnic bench to host outdoor socialising. Internally we are weary, we are tattered lace on spindly side tables. Every little bit of rest like this morning’s coffee in bed is held onto as though I am stockpiling loveliness in order to survive. I am writing this to help ease that mentality. I would like to adjust out of isolation, I would like to be a light frost thawing

Over this last week I did remember to go to work, then came home and back to writing. Popped outside to admire sleek ice every now and then; sometimes stars nestled in their velvet sky. One cold sunny morning the elder trees were pruned, and the wild rose in the rockery. Spring flowers were pushing up, not enough to lift the winter slowness, nor should we be in a rush to be rid of winter. We need our fallow times. Slow is important. This morning I dropped the car to Race Hill Garage since the tyre and handbrake warning lights are sparking up without reason (that I know of- a sensor may need replacing on this, my metal ox). Walked home facing the whip of the wind, glad of the long coat I was wrapped in. Stopped to photograph a lone bull - it’s your Year, I call to it, we too are in lockdown solitudes, let us have solidarity. It bowed a bovine head to continue chewing. Looked up to the treetops of the Small Woods where the spring buds hold tightly poised. It is good to rest, and go

Wednesday 3rd February 2021 Returned to work on Monday with my lists of little things to achieve each day, to balance the lack of other adventures in this, the third of our UK lockdowns. Checked rota and found myself not working more than usual shift pattern for two weeks consecutively which feels like I am still on holiday. 😊 Yesterday we stocked up on top soil, potting compost, vermiculite; bought seeds for savoy cabbage and tarragon, and I treated myself to new secateurs (lost a pair in the garden somewhere). 💚 We took the van, also picking up an old window which later will be a solar dehydrator and water heater, and wood for replacing the polytunnel door, which was too long for the van. Mr had to borrow a saw and bespoke the lengths in rain so heavy it was near solid. 💧 This morning after stretches and dog walking I lugged new topsoil onto the polytunnel beds, pruned the small apple tree, cooked mushrooms on the woodburner. Right now I am about to brew extra coffee and crack

Writing Goals For 2021  After a brief festive respite, the novel in progress is being dragged into the light of the new year. It has taken a few complicated turns and far too many timelines but I'm wrestling it back to sense. This is the first proper fiction I've written in a long while, other than short mostly hilarious stories, my to-date published books for adults have been written from life. The joy of the ordinary is not missing from this new work, it has merely been joined up with various invented* entities and realms. To keep the plot focused and because I find it the hardest least enjoyable bit of writing I am here attempting to put together a book jacket blurb.  Please read and send feedback - no offense will be taken - I have no idea if the following makes sense let alone if it would entice a reader...  The novel itself needs some pragmatic restructuring but should be a reasonable first draft before this year is done. This, plus more blogging which will be (perform ri

 A Secret We Nearly Kept!  Thursday 3rd December 2020 Walked around two fields, liked them. Phoned the estate agents, decided to offer the guide price. Woke up at 2am in an indecisive panic. Should we shouldn’t we do this? Annoyed at myself for wasting time with worry when the offer could go nowhere. We have made offers before. The velvet jacket I didn’t buy in the Hospice shop appears in a half awake dream. Don’t have regrets, it is telling me. It was such soft velvet and only £4. These are south facing fields near the River Deer, nearly 5 acres. A small stable block, mature hedging, a corner of woods. Somewhere a mains water connection Friday 4th December 2020 I go to the Post Office, the haberdashers, the stationers, the homebrew shop, ticking off a list. Head home. Mr has just finished a phone call. Offer accepted. We are scared - not as much as before. Excited, manageably. There is an ease to it. It isn’t exactly as imagined because it is real. We are too amazed to tell anyone. Th

Mid-November, 2nd Lockdown, Notes: At night I drive home by porches and windows that flutter with fairy lights: the lights of Autumn-Christmas, visual cries through dense uncertainty, celebrations through doubt. How can I not smile? People have hunkered into this second lockdown and not given up, or they have said Meh and given in to the need for shine. There are decorated trees beaming out, bright strings from yard to roof, muted stars.  Bought a cheap but pleasantly coloured diary, (the turquoise side of teal) daring to think about organising next year. Walked Dog up the hill in a late autumn chill, a wave of starlings breaking overhead; the lowing sun, a bewildering array of cloud types, a sliver of waxing moon. She sniffed stories, and I the loamy aroma of rotted leaves. Home again for snacks and writing. Yule Tale 2020... brings back Barry The Shelf Elf. The pandemic has meant changes to the usual ways of doing things. Teleporting presents, holographic elves. All the tests go w

Space for soul work Monday 9th November 2020 It’s write anything day. Tap out words. Thoughts adrift. In my car when I’m in fine voice, no one knows otherwise. I might be pitch perfect. Doesn’t matter. The important thing is to sing if I want to. Write. Always watching the weather, jumping in the mud. Walk my feet into the sea until my shoulders slip under, limbs fold-unfold, swimming. Write anything. Be. Let the cliche be. Doesn’t matter. What matters? Yes the little things, yes the big picture. Making mistakes YES. Be serious. Be fun. Misuse punctuation in the general flow. Beautiful words that come to me when I’m lacking a pen or a keyboard, that will never be replicated, that were either perfect or illusionary, that do or don’t need to be shared: tumble through it. Look but seek nothing. I’m at work, it’s drizzling. Sky a pale blur, all colours softened. Indoors the light is warm and also soft. I’m tired from the hot flushes that are stalking my nights, from the dog’s odd new ob

Grounding With Words And Details Wednesday 7th October 2020 I have of late been in a slump, feeling stuck. Better today. Small actions help. Noticing stuff helps - today a squirrel with a mouthful of acorn stopped to stare at me and that is a definite boost. One does not always have a squirrel to summon but clouds, sunsets, the sound of rain: things the senses can appreciate, they keep a person grounded and they slowly build me back. Sunday 11th October 2020 Sat in bed, drinking coffee. Yesterday a rainbow struck the shed, this morning there is an ice-blue sky with white cloud in solid curls. I can see the outline of the pine, hear a pair of birds cackle, hear my washing machine whirling. The usual pigeons are absent. I am thinking of having a swim before work. The sea is still warm-ish, as is the land and the general air temperature, the windchill factor is upping. I endeavour to keep a suitably packed swim kit with me at all times. If I do swim I will be tacky from salt all day,

Words From A Work In Progress Through the rush of lockdown (care worker, more hours, no furlough, more wages for the land fund though, pros and cons) my brain has been boggled with various challenges and writing has been done in tiny bursts, scattered about like seeds out of a himalayan balsam. Concentration is returning. This part-written book has bided time, but it is creeping back to pestering me for attention, which I pretend to be annoyed by but is a heartfelt homecoming. So here is a little share from the end of chapter 3, where Old Annish is reliving her second birthday. No context, no spoilers: the plot is mostly untangled now but it could all change yet.    ***  In the first photograph she is cute, though frowning - the smiles around her are reassuring. Old Annish smiles too. She has always liked these pictures. Early memories, she thinks, are pivot-edges, where stories you are told of yourself pitch into personal recall. It’s how you become real. Details, even if they aren’t

Inaugural voyage of The Nancy-Doris, Tuesday 1st September 2020 [This morning in the polytunnel cabbage-white butterflies beat erratic: also many wings without bodies scattered the floor. Early harvest for spiders: picture them in their web-hammocks, slurping from husks; like cocktails out of coconuts. Hmm, says I, this is true: metamorphosis is beautiful not immortal; the cycle of life is also this, littered with wings, the memento mori. Get writing, I say to myself. Write the books before your pages are blowing away and the tutting spiders of time are sampling your puree. 'Caffeine rich earthiness, layered with seaweed oil, a top note of lime blossom.'] This afternoon, task by task we achieved new things: lifting our kayak to the Dacia roof, looping straps, securing straps (quick prayer for effectiveness of anchor points), Check list: seats, paddles, dry bag, an emergency phone app for contacting coastguards, and so forth. Deciding what to wear as the weather blows cold,