Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

In the winter, you can close your eyes on Saunton Sands and run. You navigate by the sound of waves. I have never yet made the blind sprint without laughing; in spite of the cold, my shoes are off, my feet get a cold burn, I hear Dog padding nearby. My broken foot hurts, but I can’t resist, the rush is worth the hurt. In the summer, the plain of sands is peopled. They are not bothering me, I don’t resent them, I wouldn’t send them all home: it makes for a different experience, that’s all. The water is warm. I wade in with Dog till she paddles beside me. She swims around the bustle of shore craft; the short boards, the body boards, one kayak, the mini-mals and the long boards. These summer people are in wetsuits, wisely, considering the wind-chill factor. On dry sand the summer people have windbreaks, deck chairs, beach blankets, buckets. Paraphernalia. It is worth having, if you use it and if you enjoy it; for what it is not how it makes you look. This is what I decide as I am sat ...

Because I decide to get my daily writing practice ticked off the list in good time, go out with Dog to hunt for an idea. Along the middle path lies a cleaned up piece of bone, sheep thigh, I think, a bin forage not a kill.  Flick it into a bramble with the toe of my boot, uncertain, preoccupied. Shall I write of this? What shall I write about?  The answer to this question must come to me: if I chase it, it turns to mirage.  Surrounded by peaceful swaying greenery, I stand, listen to the leaves say ‘shhhh.’ The idea is here, it grows towards me. It is the greenery, growing, closing up the lane. Two or so years ago, Farmer Landlord borrowed back the petrol strimmer previously left for lane maintenance. He was bringing it back. Half a mile of hedgerow seems like a lot when you trim it by hand. As a rare experience, not unpleasant: as a chore, it makes your body ache. Since we know we are leaving, we have let it go. Nothing is kept in order, things disappear. The granite ...

One year ago today, out swam Baby into a pool of warm water and a room of worn-out, overwhelmed, awestruck women. It’s a baby! We are dumbfounded like we had no idea. Being at the very first breath of a life has that effect. It’s weird enough that matter reproduces matter, but that a real person appears, a formative social being? Every single time: tremulous incredulity. The baby, likewise, is astonished, having no experience yet of the potential for boredom that some people find within the spectrum of existence. This is the very beginning of learning to perceive: making a relationship between light and shade, between presence and noise, between comfort and discomfort. Baby aged one year is pleased to be in the park, with toys and cake and sandwiches and people she recognizes as part of her life. She closes her eyes when the sky is too full of light. Tips her head when the breeze lifts her hair. Folded cardboard has words and pictures, like books, so she reads them. Her interpre...

[I like to pick an approach, each month, rather than a theme, for my writing to play with. Through May, I played with keeping this blog like a diary. I write everyday, so picking the day’s events as inspiration brings a constant flow of material. I write everyday, for the practice with words, and for the practice with attitude. The more I train myself to see the inimitable nature of stuff, situations and sentient beings, the more my contentedness flows. My world evolves, ever more marvelous. So, through June, I intend to make the unique view a more specific focus.] Bunting cooks in windows or is hung to cool off in the breeze. It spiders out from the War Memorial, zig-zags every street. It matches my mood in brightness, because the phone call from the letting agency was to agree a moving date. Tomorrow is Coronation Day, tomorrow is Baby’s first ever birthday, a week tomorrow is Boy’s sixteenth birthday, two weeks tomorrow we move to Lawhitton. Red, white and blue in variations of s...

Engines running, while wheels are stuck static in a traffic rut. I spy a scale of negative facial arrangements. Blank. Bored. Submissive. Resigned. Irritated. Aggravated. Angry. Here and there, music plays, a happy carload bounces with seated dances and karaoke voices howl from wound down windows. My guess is correct. They are indeed, young people. I hope they can keep this feeling, not as a nostalgia; as a sustained part of their older lives. My least favoured expression; on a face, in a voice, lurking in a mind; is dissatisfaction. It is the enemy of appreciation. Mr is facing the enemy today, trying to track down a parcel, following a trail of expensive unhelpful phone numbers. He is already irritated. On a number of occasions I too have made a customer service manager feel like they have earned their annual salary in just one day. ‘No, I’m afraid I did not make a record of the name of the employee to whom I spoke. This is because I was under the delusion that you employed comp...

Checking emails: spam, selling stuff, Facebook birthday list, and a reply. Craig from Buglife ( www.buglife.org.uk ) identifying the Jewelwing we thought we saw as a native Beautiful Demoiselle. Calopteryx Virgo, though not rare in this habitat, does not disappoint.  ( http://british-dragonflies.org.uk/species/beautiful-demoiselle ) Spiders weave webs, or hunt, they plot, they stalk, they trap. They cannibalise freely for they are not obviously sentimental. But over the fields each year, the web pod nurseries are fixed into grass clumps, keeping the spider young safe. Ants are many acting as one, sublimated to purpose, a society of absorbed co-operation. Bees speak to each other in a language of dance. Woodlice are an early design, a segmented ancientness. Metamorphic invertebrates are my favourites, for their symbolism. Head brimful of glittering wings, of flight paths, lazily drive into town. There are traffic lights at the double roundabout. A colourful configuration of cars...

Over the fields this morning, a hot air balloon. It is the shape of a light bulb, like the valley has just had an idea. Tethered to Fat Beagle, I follow far behind, along the top path, the closest I can get to climbing into the basket. Dog, who can be trusted to return, runs free. Fat Beagle is pleased to be out on the tasty sheep poo snack trail. The chunky tail wags. Foxgloves are in flower, vertical globules of pinkish purple. We all go back to the house for some wholesome breakfast. Under a wide brimmed hat, I sit, legs tucked under the pallet table, to finish shading the picture of the ink-drinking monkey. Last time I was out here the wind stole my eraser. All I could find on the ground nearby was a half chewed mouse. This did not seem a fair exchange, not for me, nor mouse. The air does not move, today, and the little body lies still in situ. It transpires, from Mr’s venturing into town, that the letting agency write badly worded letters. The whole big scary amount is not u...

From the collection 'Sublimely Cheerful Postcards' Last night, I read this quote, and then, of course, had to write. Curtain Call was my first title idea, but this morning I prefer ‘Encore;’ it holds the sense of something to continue. The metaphor shifts, but the sense of tiredness is sustained, so the title is all that I have changed: ‘I have forced myself to begin writing when I've been utterly exhausted, when I've felt my soul as thin as a playing card, when nothing has seemed worth enduring for another five minutes... and somehow the activity of writing changes everything. Or appears to do so’. Joyce Carol Oates I could write all night. But then I would be tired. Thinking of sitting here, with the window open, just tapping out all the changes in the air. But there are other things that need my attention. Time to shut down, conserve energy, regroup my scatty, distracted self. But, first, a little light writing to direct my dreams. Stream out some sentences,...

The window is open all night. Whatever the weather did then, I slept through it. Woke to coolness, to a low sky of watercolour greys. Boy is up, eating cheese on toast. Boy looks at his watch. His morning routine is breakfast and cop drama. This morning some fanatical plot to reintroduce smallpox is not quite foiled yet. In principle, I do not like tv and breakfast. In practice, Boy relaxes happy before hitting the exam desk. ‘You can have a lift,’ I say, stirring soya milk into a bowl of oats. My breakfast is paler than the sky. The big news today should be the big cheque handed to the letting agent. If we don’t pass the credit check, there is no refund. At this point, homeless and penniless thoughts haunt every level of our minds. One attends to practical acts to appease uneasy spirits, such as the dogs need walking, then we should write a menu plan. As we are striding across the corner of the lowest field, out of habit eyeing up wood sources, a marvellous thing flies by, a dar...

Hard gummed Baby, slimed in drool, falls deceivingly swiftly to sleep. The heat or the teeth or an unknown third option turns the night into a series of walks connecting bed and cot. As birdsong trebles through an open window, Baby is wedged into bed between grandparents. As the sun rises, she sits up, claps hands, slaps Mr Grandad on the shoulder. Rain falls heavy, it’s still hot, the birds call. Downstairs the clock reads 5.55am. Baby rubs a piece of jammy toast over her hair. I reach for a mug the size of a god’s forearm. My sense of scale is half asleep. But it is a big mug. It is filled with a quagmire of coffee. At this hour, caffeine is best served with cartoons. Mostly dabbed clean of blackcurrant, Baby bobs about the room, delighted by two dogs, a drawer of toy cars, a spoon and a brick. She miscalculates clearance height under the coffee table; refuses comfort; demands comfort; slouches slowly to sleep. Granma slow motion slouches too, after correctly guessing the Scooby ...

Yesterday’s brain, under surface calm assertions, sounded like this: ‘Oh. The twenty-sixth day of May? We could be moving house in four days. Four days, or five? Five years since I started stripping the bedroom wallpaper, but we never had the money for paint. While Boy is doing his exams? We have no boxes. Will the big cheque clear in time? To give notice requires 30 days. Where did I leave my coffee? Stop eating sheep poo, Fat Beagle!’ Farmer Landlord phones that evening: ‘That’s fine dear, you sort yourself out. Take your time over it- that’s fine, yes, no, don’t pay us any more rent, that’s fine. Longer someone stays in the property, the better for us, if you see what I mean.’ Quick words construct sentences. Regret in every pause. Apologetic kindness. Advantageous sympathy. Assuming, self-assuredly, the sought cottage is rented to us, between there and here, a buffering state is mapped. Out comes the elderflower champagne, it flowers effusively all over the kitchen floor. ...

Heat follows me into the house. Around the edges of the fields fleece-laden sheep graze shaded grass. Fat Beagle, our houseguest for the week, struggles to clamber up to the cool sofa leather. Dog watches derisively. She curls her lips when he wanders close. She curls up next to him when he whimpers. Not love and hate; comfort and scorn. I make coffee and leave it to cool. I fetch my laptop from the cupboard that is my office. It is an old Mac, bought with a redundancy payout in 2006. I dropped it once, halting the terrible fall with my broken foot: literally, a painful experience. The casing fractured. The plastic splinter is still held in place by a sticker from a Thornton’s chocolate. Thus it became an object both useful and quirky. Stuff I own is on my mind, today. I will not classify it as a painful occurrence, but I do not deny being discomforted. Moving from a sprawling crumble of a house, to a neat cottage, not all of our possessions will fit. I believe that life is more ...

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: ...

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. ‘S...