Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Boarded up houses are obvious mysteries, no less fascinating for it, even if you know the reason why the boards are up and the people are out. We pass a couple, on the way out to Bude; one a casualty of the recession, one a fatality by fire. And then there’s one occupied house, a nice looking house with a tidy garden, which for some months has had one boarded first storey window. That is curious. Maybe it’s because we live in a curious town. I have just read an article about creativity, suggesting that an aimless walk is a viable way to invoke ingenious reverie. I think, I should go on a town hike, it’s about time I stretched my words beyond the farm and the sky. Engaging with limited initial subject matter brings strong discipline to my imagination, but for balance everything must be varied. But for now, it’s Sunday evening and the fire is lit. Mr has fallen asleep on the sofa, hands in loose fists on his lap, feet planted one shoulder’s width apart. Dog is curled in

Last night: One glass of oak-aged red wine; which, I anticipate, will introduce me to more of its kind, I do rather relish Friday night wine networking; and a homemade burger keep both my hands busy. Dog is fetching shredded cardboard fragments in hope of me having a hand free to throw them away so she can fetch them again. Boy designs a website for his favourite strategy game, I advise on font size, that’s the bit I understand. Mr is on Facebook, liking stuff. Coal glows in the wood burner. Wine glows in me, warms up thoughts of sleep. Bare feet tread threadbare carpet upstairs to the welcome bed. All today: Waking is an easy drift. Of where dreams travelled there is no trace. Bare feet trawl across the kitchen floor, dragging a kettle to the tap and back. Coffee comes, dark matter that sparks life. A broom orders the crumbs and dog hair into one collectable thatch, to be scooped onto the fire embers, to smoulder quietly behind closed burner doors. Words are put demurely on the

Fourth of May, 2012 Fast down the alleyway, on foot, not sure if I have missed a turn because it’s dark, although, no: I have seen that same cat stroll from the shadow of that same wall, when daylight made the place look friendlier. Jump out of the dream in alarmed sync; disorientated but with time, this morning, to wash my face and drink leftover coffee, half a cup. I am wearing all of yesterday’s clothes, not that Baby will judge. She picks, interestedly, at a bit of dried sick on my jeans. ‘Lasagne,’ I remind her and she nods. After lunch she adds a bit of cottage pie to the Baby collage on my leg. The carrot is especially conspicuous against grey denim.  It is her whimsy today to drag the nappy change bag round the front room. When I remind her that fiddling with plug sockets is not permitted, she pats the bag strap. It signals- ‘But I have a bag, the sign of a grown up.’ Then she smiles and shakes her head, for she is just teasing me with her clever disguise. At home, the

The moon was a drop of white on a wet blue canvas, in yesterday’s evening sky. Briefly catch the mackerel cloud. Then the sun dips through its red finale, fixes our attention utterly. Dream, all night, of living in a jungle. Woken by Boy, waving a phone. Girl forgot to text me her shift dates, so I’m supposed to be over with Baby and not hiding from the heat in my bamboo hut. A swift time triage- swig coffee now, wash face later. It’s cloud forest humid, but without heat. The day passes, hazy as my tired head. The birds sing, the foliage is spring swollen. I remember in the jungle I didn’t have a car but things are barely less simple here. Baby laughs at Dog spitting out a stone. Mr puts the espresso pot on the stove. With no heat to hide from, I stand outside, hearing the song of the canopy. 

1.5.12 The wind has her head down, busily sweeping cloud and flailing the five wet tea towels I have hung on the line. As fast as she sweeps, the cloud piles up behind her. Here, in the brief sunshine of a clean house, I empathise. Walking in from pegging out, two young rats skip past, from behind the washing machine, squeal, skid into the getaway pipe. Curiosity causes a turn back. When I peer in, two dark eyes stare right back. All the poisoned grain packs are dragged away. Curiosity won’t kill them. That will be the anti-coagulant’s job. 2.5.12 We have yellow curtains, venerably old velvet, a shade too mustardy but fully lined and practical for the space it’s in. When the sun shines behind them the colour lights up; half in sleep I think the sun is climbing in the window. It won’t fit, so this must be dreaming. The light is here, so this must be morning. Back door opens to the back porch, where a young rat is dithering. I want to take a photograph of it. I can save its imag

Here is a poem born of last night's tired scribbling (compulsive behaviour) and this morning's rejuvenation of coffee. It almost jumped out, after a very short-seeming gestation. I wrote it before I really understood what I was communicating here. As I have been venturing into the blogosphere, I have been boggled by the number of people; talented, communicative, interesting; all out there, all with something valid to say, hoping to be noticed, and it seems impossible that one can be noticed, because each of us is only one life of approximately seven billion currently inhabiting the earth, and if you add in the tangible memories, the books and the paintings and the films and the scrolls, that previous occupants have left us to ponder- boom- your head will explode. It may not be infinite, but it makes me feel rather insignificant. But then I also find, once my ego has been flattened by the vastness, there is something liberating in accepting that insignificance. I have only t

Taking this challenge has helped consolidate what I have to say and how I want to convey it. I write everyday so the routine wasn’t too arduous but there is something about making the public commitment that makes you stretch a bit further, faster, stronger.  Thank you to everyone who has been part of process, it has been a positive experience and although I now, in all honesty, do follow more blogs than I have time to read, connections have been made and I hope to maintain some level of online sociability. In short: grateful for the opportunity to be pleasantly surprised.  Hmm... what to write next? 

  The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. I’m not totally against material possessions, just meaningless stuff we clutter our selves and spaces with. Some things can be the physical representations of ideals, like achieving the highest standard of musical expression (I'm merely a listener, picked Ziljan for the symbol/cymbal pun, shame on me, but then again, this is the end of the A-Z Challenge, I’m allowed to play.) My best symbol is my dragonfly, which is tattooed on my left shoulder and therefore unlikely to get cleared out. It represents the ability to transform oneself, and since I have used it correctly (smug but true) it has become a powerful prompt in my life. I like tattoos but I only have the one, because so far it’s all I’ve needed. I have pondered other designs, such as a periwinkle shell, a tiny home for a creature that survives the fiercest storms, but my dragonfly doesn’t seem to need any company.

Cherry blossom is plucked, whirled and mostly glued to my car by clumsy rain splats. Everywhere is petal polka dots. The wind is dizzy. The sky, choked up with phlegmy cloud. Cat runs in before the door has finished opening. She looks for her food bowl like a hypoglycaemic. Dog runs out, flinging her tongue to one side. Her ears and my hair catch a blast of cold air, blow obstructively to vision. Dog is not slowed down, she leaps the gate as I am fixing my hood toggles. Under the waterproofs I am still dressed in pyjamas, I am pre-coffee, pre-breakfast, haven’t even washed my face. Some instinct has propelled me out here, into the storm of blossom. This weather is set in. For a month, Farmer Landlord says. He brought rat poison, because they won’t get in the traps. I’m not sentimental about it, exactly, but I wish they had opted for a swifter death. It came to poison last time too, and one lay dead beyond reach in the roof space over the brewing kitchen. No one forgets a smell like

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. This is one of my favourite quotes, attributed to Eric Morecombe, light entertainer, who wore thick rim dark rectangular glasses just like my Dad’s. Often I have incurred displeasure for not seeming at all studiously glum, and have had cause to flaunt this piece of wisdom. E.g. ‘Sorry, that was an awfully short and self centred post, but it did have a sincere sense of fun with an important underlying message. You don’t have to be miserable to be serious!’

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. I haven’t written much about my martial art on this blog, not for a shortness of zeal or an absence of the obsession which if you are or you know a martial artist will be excruciatingly familiar. If you do know: I practice pre-ITF Tae Kwon Do, as espoused by Major General Hoi Hung Hi’s 1983 manual. And if you don’t, don’t worry, I am not completely oblivious to the glazed eyes, there will only be a short technical description, followed by an observation of equal brevity. Kyocha Sogi, or in English, X stance Cross one foot over or behind the other, touching the ground slightly with the ball of the foot. Body weight rests on the stationary foot. It’s a short stance, the feet being placed close, under the body. There is something irrepressibly funky about this stance. Baby uses it whilst tackling her toy box, which suggests a fundamentally

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. This is a re-post of my first ever blogged communication. It is a bit cheaty to repeat; in this instance, I am not inclined to care. It relates to a time when I lived in an even wonkier, colder, damper house, but with much less agricultural clutter. “ It's a real soup. It's also a state of mind, which, if by cure we mean 'make better,' does cure everything.  To explain, here's a brief autobiographical tale. Once upon a time there was a wonky cottage with two tiny open fires and an impressive collection of cold damp draughts. There was no telephone, no internet, TV reception depended on the weather, and whether they could afford the electric bill. Living in the cottage was a growing family with a shrinking budget. When the gas bottle ran out they cooked on the fire. It was impossibly picturesque, so don't feel sorry for them, and most weeks

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. Specific moments of deliberate enjoyment can be embodied in a scrumptiously eye popping cup of coffee. Still love a splash of Java Sumatra, and Guatemalan Elephant, but since the discovery of Vietnamese Weasel, Va Va Voom! The aroma of it sends me… back to my honeymoon (explaining the big love hit) back through history; into a place of hot fascination, a place that steps with me, out of time, into the construction of a personal mythology. Specific moments of deliberate enjoyment can perk up everything, even if you wake up too early. My decision is to make coffee And sit, watching the colours Change, outside; the pink Underbelly of mackerel cloud Somewhere in the fridge is a tin Of coffee. This week we are drinking Vietnamese Weasel. I picture the sacks Of beans on the quayside in a monsoon wind Maybe this started as a practical joke But whoever ground up the beans from The weasel’s p

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. I’m not always so secure about being bossy, but do, on this occasion, feel decidedly, hideously justified. Enthusiasm, like many things, resides on a scale. The enthusiasm gamut starts at a sustainable leisurely pursuit, ends in an explosion. Every stage has its pros and cons and, while idiot proofing can be a courteous gesture, I’m ( generously ) going to allow my readers to work out for themselves what is good and bad about mildly eager or maniacally passionate and all the bits in between.  My intent here is to speak up for enthusiasm as a generic element. Eagerness is sometimes perceived as desperation; people clinging to obsessions that bring meaning to an otherwise bewildering drift of existence, or taking cover behind fascination so they can ignore the blunt You Have Wasted Your Life truth. This point of view does possess a validly eponymous point. But!!! A life

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. ‘Time is the sole capital of people whose only fortune is their intelligence.’ Honore de Balzac I’ve put down the 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue- literally, and in this house that means it might be a few days before I find it again. Meanwhile I’ve gone back to the rediscovery of a shelf of books I picked up, long, long ago, in a college, far, far away (by train.) One of these is called The Art of Time. ‘We think much more about the use of money, which is renewable, than we do about the use of time, which is irreplaceable,’ Jean-Louis Servan-Schrieber explains, on the front cover. I think, and my lifestyle will back me up here, that I have always been more time orientated. Last week I pretended to eat a brick and then sick it back up again. Baby chortled so much she couldn’t sit up, like hilarity trebled gravity, it took her down flat to a horizontal whole bodi

Dog takes her second urban walk around a cemetery. We let her run off the lead. Her larkish scrabblings over marble and chippings clatter incongruously as we stroll down these crowded avenues of the dead. For a moment, she pauses thoughtfully, which is my cue to fish a poo bag from my pocket. After that, the lead is reclipped. Dog does not mind. For her first walk, we had a whole park to roam; she ran circles of discovery with her nose to the ground, inhaling information. After the park we clipped down the road, past the lady in the fit-flops pushing a trolley of cakes out of Aldi’s automatic doors. We spent some pleasant if damp time kicking about outside the building full of nervous red belts, who were inside kicking each other fervently for a chance to become black belts. Dog gives them a wag as they emerge, shiny faced and tense with hope. She is popular, which she likes. 

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. Saturday’s short sunny scribble, scrutinising some symbolic stuff. Sunshine is reciprocal. Once upon a time I was all squashed out like road kill, and the weather was sternly grey. I saw a sign for a sun shower booth, not something I would normally try. Just a few minutes of pretend sun put some smile shape back on my face. Effectual emergency treatment. Sequins are metallic discs that take light in, and in the process of reflecting add theatrical enchantment. Although tinsel was my first razzle-dazzler; the magical density of nativity play haloes. I was not destined for ballet, the scuffle in the changing room and my red shoes in the cluster of pale pinks were obvious retrospective proofs; but the glamour of performance gets me every time. Sparkles are anything that refract light, unsplicing colour. Rainbows are part of the universal show. Hanging a bit of cut glass in a window, t

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. If I list the things I will miss about this home it will be a long list… A hedge of daffodils. Scooping fingers of the overhanging ash tree. Broken branch oak making a tree tunnel over the lane; picturesque, impractical bumpy lane. Wild strawberries, in the walls and the central ridge of grass. Wild garlic with triangular stems and dainty stinking flowers. Shy snowdrops, cheeky crocus. Pink rhododendron growing next to the orange berberis. Lilac rhododendron that flowers months later than the pink. Orchard daffodils in lines, grading colours from bright orange to white. Two pet graves in the orchard, one for Chinchilly (I cried for three days) and one for Tyson Sparkle, beloved rabbit. Bees in beehives. Cherry trees in blossom. Fragrance of the lilac tree. How ridiculous the house is: our bedroom doorframe is too narrow to walk through holding a breakfast tray, one must go sideways o

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup.   In the Great Britain of 1811, where I have been spending some time lately, the saying ‘In the reign of Queen Dick’ was a popular retort. There was no Queen Dick, in case you were wondering if you had misread your British throne lineage, therefore the retort clearly implies that the incident or situation referred to did not happen. If you like a challenge, use this phrase in a conversation today. I like it like this:- ‘And when did that happen- in the reign of Queen Dick, perhaps?’ With clear, archly barbed diction and a gorgeous smile.  Most of my fiction is based on incidents and situations that did happen, because I like to take what is right in front of people and surprise them with it. This is not to say that other ways of doing things are wrong- in fact, taking the everyday out of the ordinary setting is at the very least an equally splendid way to polish jaded attenti

My parents bestowed on me the first name Lisa (considered, they protested, unusual at the time.) My husband handed me the last name Southard (pronounced Sutherd, ideally, but South-hard will do.) Most of the world; this includes many close friends; know me as Lily Tequila, or Silverbetty Sequin… it’s nothing more complicated than fun. They aren’t alter egos. Silverbetty was a dancing days stage name, borrowed from my daughter’s teddy, Lily is a derivative of Lilith, an autobiographical-ish character from a novel I claim to be writing (have written, but not to my satisfaction yet.) Both pseudonyms are exactly me.  Having suffered this at school- ‘Which Lisa are you?’ (Think I was Number 5-) it is easy to realise why I might want to distinguish my existence with some flashy nom de plumes. Also why my Girl and Boy have slightly odd real names, and have preferred simplification. Plus ça change, plus ça même change… If I ever had an alter ego alias it was The Bad Girl Who Lives In My H