Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Lately, it has all been about The House; our real quest for an archetypal place of secure residence. Some balance is required, firstly because too much poignancy will make you sick and secondly because the rest of the world is still there, shuffling uncomfortably while you mutter to yourself. Embarrassment may cause you to refer to yourself in the third person, maybe even the third person plural, Lily Tequila, and all of her aliases, awkwardly note. So, still believing that in the particular lies the universal, I look outside myself and pick this for a subject. It has the essential edge of oddness. Cider Tramp. This is a terrible thing to name a person, obviously, but then so is village idiot. Sometimes the external labelling is socially understandable, if not wholly acceptable. Every village needs an idiot, it could be argued, this idiot being a vital unifying force, a source of comedy, provider of the jester function, the safety valve of social pressure. Towns have cider tramps,

Opened the window this morning to release a sleepy wasp. Opened the window out wide to the warm sky. A split-tailed bird flies in to circumnavigate my head. It seems flustered. I consider it a fortuitous sign, albeit rushed. Advance boldly to letting agency. Two properties are listed with the magic words: Pets Considered. Just about affordable. More expensive than here. We drive out, scouting. These places are picturesque, in good repair. Rosehill is picturesque, crumbling, bizarre. These places have neighbours. Do we like people? I can’t remember. I’m nervous like Robinson Crusoe leaving his island. A fission of thoughts. Take a cup of coffee outside to listen to the birds sing. A pair of finches flit into shadows on the laurel stump. They are so small in the big world, I think, and then I think of moving the fruit garden and remember that we only got our bed into the house because a window was being replaced. The finches fly close. One hovers as a hummingbird does, speeding w

Dabs of mist linger on grass. Spider webs are easy to find. Where yesterday I found half of the wing of a dark feathered bird, there are loose feathers caught on damp foliage. Dog has her nose down, forgets we are playing fetch. There is heat promised, in this humid air. While we were walking, the washing machine has rumbled to a halt. I roll wet clothes into the basket, lug it out to the line. Hoisted whites lollop in a lazy breeze. I get one very brown arm sat outside, at the pallet table, attempting to draw an ink-drinking monkey. In this story, the monkey represents chaos. On my paler arm is a training trophy; an amethyst bruise, bigger than a thumbprint, smaller than a plum. In the afternoon I brave the fields in flip-flops. I watch my footing, around sheep dung, nettles, thistle leaves, barbed wire, creeping bramble, random rocks, over the ankle twisting grass tufts. I have a flower in my hair. Panting Dog detours to the stream after we rescue a Longwool from a fence tangle.

Allergic reaction to spreadsheets In spite of it being an elegant palindrome date; 21.5.12, in UK format; numbers are not my favourite contraptions today. Format has a lot to do with it.  Attempting to finalise accounts on an excel spreadsheet grinds at my resolve to savour life, my nerves are visibly sparking. Resistance is expressed in most uncouth terminology. Swearing is one of a short list of things that differentiate private-me and public-me. I won’t be sharing these words but the braggart in me wants the world to know I am doing it impressively. Escape to the bathroom, the unofficial sanctuary of the house, to pick up reading Wittgenstein. ‘The origin and the primitive form of the language-game is a reaction; only from this can the more complicated forms develop. Language- I want to say- is a refinement, “in the beginning was the deed.”  ‘To smell a rat is ever so much easier than to trap it.’ It feels like the philosopher has rumbled my skiving. Guilty deductions: which bri

Last night: set up laptop, lost myself in editing. This book is taking on a life force, I think, I can feel the energy of it. I get a literal buzz from it. This story I am working on is from a real biography- turning life into art that improves life is an energetic passion. This morning : is a 5am start: we don’t get back home till past 7pm, 166 miles and a bunch of fights later. Welsh Championships today. Three of our students, out of the four competing, are displaying trophies. I have jolly things to say to them; and the people who are straying too close to the edge of the ring, to all of the competitors, fellow officials, paramedics, organisers, sports centre staff, ladies in the loo queue and random strangers in the car park. My verbal sparring, thanks to years of mindful training, is flyweight, light contact. When I first tied my white belt, hilarious Girl said; ‘Mum’s learning to kill people with her hands and feet, you know, in case she loses her voice.’ In the days whe

The Jam Store Cupboard At Rosehill Farmer Landlord makes contact by phone; he has missed the latest smoke alarm episode. He is calling, from a wedding in Wiltshire, to see has anyone stopped by to look at the broken electric boiler.  While he is on the phone, apologetic for the alarm, and the long list of problems to address which he tries not to think about, I press for news on the mortgage foreclosure. Salt meets badly patched wound.  This is a wincing silence.  Followed by a rush of ‘Well, I haven’t done much about it, I must get to see the bank;’ followed by the truth; ‘I don’t want to sell,’ ending with the admission, ‘I think the bank will force me to sell.’  I tell him we are now starting to look for alternative accommodation, but there aren’t many rentals that will take pets. He has a brainwave that a cousin of a cousin has a farmhouse lying empty, not too far away, he will make a call and see. Mr and me take breakfast outside. ‘Somewhere with a gar

Sleep is a heavy tide, pulling at my ankles. Walk along through the day, like a long stroll on a long beach under an overcast sky, strong water sucking the sand from underfoot. This anxiety fluttering inside is difficult to categorise. It reminds me of two things: stage fright, and larvae. It doesn’t stop me loving the first time I see Baby trying on my shoes- rainbowed sequined lace ups. She chews one cerise lace, admiring bumpy sparkles. We have lunch together, she practises her spoon work. She holds both ends to stop the food falling off. Back at Rosehill, the smoke alarms are going crazy. There is no smoke: the rats have stripped the wires causing short outs. Messages are dispatched to Farmer Landlord and the electrician. Annoying, but fairly average for a Rosehill drama. I can sit and write with a scarf wrapped over my ears. This anxious thing is my distraction. Once, not being particularly regular with my housekeeping, I swept the bedroom floor and found a dead bat under the

A whiff of death has lingered in the downstairs bathroom since the rat in the roof space incident. We have not seen a rat since the first day of May. From the thickening of the scent it is feasible that another rat corpse reclines nearby. Not something I look forward to investigating. I’m here to climb around the brewing bins and squeeze under the shower, after checking that no spiders lurk in reach of drowning and no slugs are exploring my exfoliating gloves. Not adverse to the company of invertebrates, they just don’t make good shower companions.   The shampoo bottle pops open, foams up a nicer aroma. Fresh water has an agreeable fragrance. I think, plain water has a smell, doesn’t it, or is it that the nose detects a body of wet stuff and the brain registers this as a smell? Does this make sense, or have I been neglecting sleep in favour of espresso and writing sprees, to the deficit of my overall cognisance? Shut up brain. Slough off the dull layer of skin cells, with slu

A momentous day for Boy. The Thursday that starts his exams. He opts for walking to school, maximising fresh-air time. ‘You’ve revised for this,’ says me, in pep talk mode, ‘you’ve trained, like Rocky, you can do this!’ He puts his fists up. He is ready. He goes out of the door, punching like a montage shot. This is mainly to humour his mother. When he was barely three, sat in an aeroplane, Mum showed him the white view from the lozenge shaped window. She tells him, perfectly straight faced, to look out for polar bears. ‘That’s not snow, Mum,’ says the Boy, carefully breaking news, ‘That’s cloud.’ Girl’s laughter bounces off the window, squeals round the plane like a tiny monkey. ‘I can do this!’ Punch, punch, smile hovering at the polite edge of patronising. Dog studies him, as this may be a new signal for imminent walk around fields. Clouds thicken, and if I were looking for a sign, this would not be ominous. 

I drive up to the supermarket with my sunglasses on, leave the car unlocked, bring some milk and pain au chocolat to the counter where the friendly lady sits to beep my items and exchange my coins for a listed receipt. Down the lane, out of gear, seat belt unbuckled, radio on, window open, singing to the sheep, moor and sky sprawled in clear view. Boy has time for second breakfast if I drive him to school, so I do, anticipating the view on the way back; it still makes me whoop. Breakfast outside; hot pain au chocolat, cold wedges of melon. Overhead is a lucid pool of sky. Dock leaves grow around the fire pit, brightly flaming green. Every bit of ground is sprouting exultant flowers. The washing machine gets on with cleaning our clothes, while I gather up pens and sketchbook. I put them on the table Mr made out of an old pallet. A whole illustration is marked out, shaded in painstaking dots. Between each stretch of concentration, details of the day filter in. Vietnamese coffee fills

Postman was right: this weather has the fidgets. Sun-bright 7am, wind-lashed 8am, the cloud has landed at 9am. Either smoke from a gorse fire or a wedge of mist lodges in a crook of moorland. Under scrutiny, it seems too immobile for smoke, unobserved, it seems to shift. Fact or fiction, fire or mist: definitely distracting. In the sun gap, I walk down and around the fields, smiling at Dog’s indulgent pursuit of uncatchable swallows. Or swifts or martins, I have never remembered yet. Split tails and dark wings, skimming over the grass. After lunch, the clouds look set to part. Washing is pegged to line. I return to the kitchen, thinking of sitting outside to sketch, and before the kettle has time to boil, bulbous raindrops are falling. I have a very rude word to say about that. However contrary the weather may be, not even randomly will it try caring what I think. Waterproofs are pulled on; I may as well clear my mind with a field walk. Dog supports this, actively. We scale the ga

This morning the sky is subdued, it droops over the moors, and rain fills the low gap between cloud and earth. Undeterred birds still sing. I sign for a parcel while the postman names the weather; ‘Unsettled.’  In the habit of revisiting books, seeking to turn out anything which has ceased to inspire; maybe I have outgrown it, or just absorbed it so much the original can carry its light to another shelf, I swoop a book as I pass through the front room; one I remember buying on another rainy day.  The colours drew me first; the words took me to the till with my rattling purse, tumbling pennies onto the counter. April ’93, I have written inside the cover.  Today also I seek colour; luminous, calm, luxurious colour. I think to scan the words. Instead I sit and read the whole book. Three quotes I pick out to share. Henri Matisse, son of a grain merchant, discovered his vocation by accident, given a gift of a paint set, whilst in convalescence from appendicitis. Paint on paper wak

This morning: I recall we have a shower, so I stand under it, foaming up shampoo and showery scrub things. There are three brewing bins to climb around, the floor is dank, and the room smells faintly of the long ago rat that died in the roof space.  Once the shower is cranked the water abundantly trickles out at a temperature somewhere above warm and below hot. Outside I sit with my paper, pens, coffee, sunglasses. My hair can dry in the sun. The arrival of Girl and Baby forms an impromptu picnic. Baby grubs in the mud, digging up some stones with my dinner fork. She has her first knee scuff. We try to keep a sunhat on her. This afternoon: Through the car window I observe the underside of the overhang of the garage roof, while Mr wanders in to the garage shop to pay for a bag of coal. The white plastic grooves above are ornate with darkly clogged web lines. In shades of dirty white, pockets of spider eggs inhabit the ninety degrees of angle between plastic and c

A sunny day, when I am required to be under a roof. Several sneaks outside, to plug myself into the summery buzz, admiring details in the cotton-tail clouds because I have my prescription sunglasses on. They aren’t quite so clever to take to the cinema but we sit close to the screen and 3D launches whizzy machines even closer. We love wearing our plastic glasses. I love peeking behind me and everyone is wearing the same glasses. Mr and Boy chomp chocolates and sweets. I am crunching up a bag of rocket and a punnet of cherry tomatoes. ‘It will catch on,’ I insist; they are not at all convinced about the cinema salad bar future. Flying robot suits; they prefer that future. Not mutually exclusive: just greatly varying in degrees of enthusiasm.  Dry sky and clear views all the drive home. Before the film, we sit at a pavement table with drinks; fizzy stuff for the lads, espresso for the lady. Polished pedicures swish past in fashionable sandals. It occurs to me that some of these pe

    A blogging award? For me? Teresa Cypher, thank you very much! I visit Teresa’s blog for a unique blend of science fiction and country life, always uplifting and educational. (Witches Jelly was one of my favourites.) http://dreamersloversandstarvoyagers.blogspot.co.uk In accordance with Kreativ blogger rules, accepting this award includes:  Firstly: Thanking the blogger who nominated me for the award and providing a link back to their blog. Done! Secondly: Listing 7 things about myself that the readers might find interesting. Easy, I thought, I am always doing ridiculous things… only to find rascally thoughts scattering and slippery… These are the things I grabbed hold of- 1. I have punched a seagull. 2. I married Mr in a disused slate mine. 3. Have recovered from a milk phobia. I still don’t like it, but the screaming has stopped. 4. Have seen a fox doing a bright purple poo. (They eat berries.) 5. Had to complain to my landlord more than once abo

Boy, exploring ruins, expressing a spirit of irrepressibility Today it has been my fantastical whimsy to deliberately not notice any ordinary miracle moments at all. Dog and me walk the fields, and do throw ball stuff, bag up a poo. Ignore clouds. Even when Mr notes that they are formed over the moors ‘in lines, like the lines of a poem.’ He doesn’t know why I am not rushing to ogle. This is exactly the sort of thing I love to ogle. My parents drop by for cups of tea and a lesson in re-potting the wilty vine. Nearly get drawn into how beautiful the view is. The rolling panoramic sculpture of the moorland peaks… Quick, cast my eyes to the crumbling house. Think of my bank balance… Mr cooks bolognaise. There is hot water for the bath. There is espresso. I sit outside to start a new illustration, in the sun, and the clouds billow away like sails at a tall ship race.

Wednesday evening:   On the drive out, to Plymouth via Tavistock, fat mist rolls over the moor. Twists of bacchanalian gorse are waiting for the dark. The dark takes its time. On the drive back, to Launceston via Callington; the colours are concentrated, not consumed. The mist has lingered. The wet road reflects. Everything blends, like Monet has painted this evening for us. At the road edge, wistful leafage deepens slowly to silhouette. Night is here; tremulous trees breathe night air.  Trees are different creatures by night. Thursday morning:   Boy reports, on his looking from the window to survey the likely pattern of the day’s weather, that a tree has fallen across the lane. An elderly damson, I think, on closer inspection, as it has crumbled, not fallen. The wood disintegrates in my fingers, soft as the flat grey air, flaking like pastry. Mix it all up, says my playful imagination, bake a damson pie. In the debris, I find a nest, small enough to decorate the im

Showered, scrubbed, sat, fully dressed, in bed because the house is cold and from here I have a pleasing vista of leafy trees and sheep dots on field squares. Moorland squats under mist. The window has rain freckles. I hear a car rumble on the lane. Mr returns from his town errands, and he has bought a picnic basket in a charity shop. ‘Another bit of clutter,’ he apologises. I look up at my family heirloom stuffed Red Squirrel, and decide I’d better not worry about it. Picnics are fun, even an indoor picnic on a day that rains. It is difficult to pack food in a basket without being mindful of the intention to share and enjoy. I don’t know why I like Squirrel so much though. Probably because he is so odd, he provokes a quizzical mindset, even when I am used to him being there. And he reminds me of this: Once upon a time there was such a place as ‘Mr Potter’s Museum of Curiosities,’ a collection of objects including locally retrieved mummified cats, seventeen kittens drowned and stu

Yesterday, it rained. It was warm enough to have the windows open, though, and sit listening to the rain while my hair dried in untended waves and I finally finished the picture of the fly and the furnace fire. Exactly half way through the list of illustrations now. Never want to draw another picture ever again. My position and my sentiments being at odds, I get dressed in a reasonably civilised fashion and walk up into the town. If I were to stroll into town in pyjamas and Wellington boots, or a fairy costume, or painted green, and I were to meet a friend, they would say, ‘Oh, hello, haven’t seen you out for a while; clouds look dicey don’t they?’ No mention of my outfit, because they wouldn’t be surprised. I am a practicing eccentric. The clouds are colossal, an upside down canyon with a gleaming sky river. The town is little and lined with granite, made up of a mix of building styles, some so old and wobbly they have no straight lines to them at all. Some of the paving slabs

The world through the curtains is a grey cloud world. But I’m awake, so I will climb into my Wellington boots and take Dog to the fields, because I love Dog, under any sky.  I am watching her leap the five bar gate, watching the spray as she skids through dew heavy grass, I am thinking, let’s take the lower path this morning and check the Longwools aren’t caught in any bramble thickets. I watch my footing on the slippy wide bladed grass, down to the sloppy mud under the holly tree. Only then do I look up. Vast clouds fill the right hand side of the firmament; what is left, is clearly uncluttered blue. Last night’s fire in the grate means that there is today hot water waiting in the tank, my chatty little brain tells me, so it is entirely possible to indulge in a bath and then sit outside to dry my hair in sunshine. And if the cloud presses in, it was still a beautiful thought.