Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

These pictures were taken on a winter's day when instead of tidying the house as planned we wedged bodyboards in our armpits and trekked out to hurtle ourselves down a bumpy snowy field. Then we came home with cold wet limbs, dramatising our bruises into near death experiences while the espresso pot bubbled on a dirty hob. There was an element of pride at the mess the house was in, with some simultaneous revulsion. It's a lively mess, because we are always busy. I like it as long as it's lively. When it gets stagnant then I get cranky and start to tidy up. There needs to be a process, so we can keep seeing that this is a reflection of how we have chosen to live, this is what the mess represents.  These are not great photos, but they represent something important to me, something specific to me; the splendid dirty funny dance of my only life.  Living is the most important creative process.

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 they could buy a chicken from the supermarket. It was one of those value chickens; kept in crowded filth for a short miserable life and its bedraggled body injected with water to give an impression of plump health under glossy cellophane. Not the happiest purchase available, just the cheapest. In death, the sad straggly bird was greatly appreciated. Roasted wit