Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. A ppreciation is something to be practised at every opportunity like pelvic floor exercises and every bit as useful. Since today the A-Z theme is in its infancy I shall demonstrate using an A word, and I choose the obvious apple. I happen to have some home grown russets, stored in my fridge over winter, but one bought from a shop is absolutely acceptable. My apple is: wrinkly from long storage, rough leathered light brown skin, a bit of stalk where it was once attached to the tree. It fills my palm, the chilled weight of it, I can imagine it falling from the branch to the grass; thumping on the ground, rolling down the orchard slope till it catches and settles in uneven turf.  It has an earthy scent till I cut it, on the chopping board, under the sharpened steel blade of the vegetable knife. Opened apple fragrance is fresh and light, acidic sweet, faintly sour. The flesh of

This morning was a get up early and make espresso and get in the car morning. Boy was reading, Mr and me doing our habitual tree spotting. No mistletoe grows in our patch of the world, we don’t know why. Do the birds that eat the seeds not travel beyond a certain point? If Mr could fly he would go everywhere. He doesn’t understand why birds should take their abilities for granted and be rooted to a territory. Being rooted and having wings seems contrary to him; an interesting point, I concede, but one unlikely to cause a finch any sleepless nights. If death leaves a spirit-self, Mr’s ghost will be swooping the skies, while mine will be tumbling surf. Since the sky and the sea are always touching, we can still hang out together. On the return journey, we view blossoms; the hawthorns are looking lively; and play the family travelling game- making phrases from car registration letters, which degenerates so rapidly into making naughty phrases that it is called ‘Three Letter Filth.’ It

I drive to my Friday Baby-sitting shift, wiping mist off the windscreen with wipers set to intermittent. The sheep are pressed in a bunch, collectively suppressing yesterday’s heat in their straggled chunks of fleece. Farmer Landlord has brought this modest flock to the fields recently, I'm not sure what breed but they are a rustically cute animal, a bit dilapidated, so very much in keeping with the rest of the property. I fetch Baby back to our cottage. She gets wood-dust knees and develops her friendship with Dog. After lunch, she is tired and tetchy, so Mr, Boy, Baby and me press in a bunch in the kitchen for singing and expressive dance. It reminds me of a John Cage quote; ‘theatre takes place all the time wherever one is, and art simply facilitates persuading us that this is the case.’ Our show is a resounding success. Baby sleeps for over an hour.

I notice the weather, every day, mainly because it changes so frequently, although this day is the seventh consecutive sunny event, and here I am, eating fruit for breakfast with the windows open again. I wonder how easy it would be to take the weather for granted, if it was reliable, if you lived in one of those places where you could look at the calendar and know what would be happening in the sky. Maybe I would write more about flowers and birds, and what happens in trees and streams. The stream is perfectly interesting and even pretty, despite the junk it curls around, but the only life I’ve seen in it is Dog. Trees are twitching with birds so busy I’m afraid they might have a mass coronary. I imagine the sound of all those feathered bodies thumping onto the grass; hopefully most of them will survive and just have to do less frantic nesting, be a bit more relaxed about sharing territories. Spring buds are evident on the damsons, the pear, and the ridiculously tall cherry. Our he

This morning was made of speckles. Not literally, not the whole morning, I am exaggerating for effect. I was adding dots to a storybook illustration, peripherally aware of the fabulous day outside, the windows were all open and the air all fresh, much nicer than the usual wood ash and damp dog aromas that loiter in our living room. Breathing became noticeably pleasant. I was aware of enjoying the simple act of breathing and quietly applying ink. The morning passed, the picture was finished and scanned and sent. Donna tells me the lambs have come a week earlier than expected, and her sister has been helping, trundling her baby daughter through the pens in a wheelbarrow. 

Everything we had planned for today got postponed for a mundane but pleasant list of reasons. Out came the sun. Disciplined me used the extra time to catch up on sensible work indoors, which is not a bad thing, but in a bid for a balanced life and a need to atone for yesterdays grump, a run to the beach was, in retrospect, inevitable. Mr, Dog and me piled into my scruffy car and unpiled at Widemouth Bay, low tide. I walked down the beach and forgot to stop until me, my clothes and my Dog were in the sea. It was more extreme paddle than swimming. The water was cold but the kind that skin can acclimatise to. Mr is not convinced. Mr is amused. The waves catch a beneficent wind, spray rises in a plume. In the shelter of the car door I do the traditional clumsy changing from wet clothes to spare sarong. I must have a ‘Just Add Water’ Acme Happiness Device fitted. Drove home perfectly balanced, after cleaning the salt from my shades. A buzzard rises over the car, and I toy with the idea t

Everyone has the odd bad day, no matter how fabulous the philosophy or the view or the shoes.  It didn’t start badly. There was a chill mist opaquing a fat sun, which sight I smiled at as I drove to do my bringing up Baby shift. My grey check lace ups were looking cool, pressing the pedals in my clunky quirky car. Baby was hilarious. Today she crawled out of the kitchen after raiding the washing machine, holding a clean vest in her mouth like a small animal off to cozy up a den. At home, Mr and I sat outside with our diaries and espressos and talked dates while a buzzard patrolled the fields.  I have had some emails back from letting agencies, because we might need to move. This is the first prang into my usual perkiness. Impending upheaval and empty pockets, this gets to the crux of the slump. I am allowed a certain quota of slumpage, I tell myself, even if I don’t like it. What I am not allowed to do is keep any, or dump it on other people. At this point, I cheer myself up with