Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

What the bay tree will look like, if it survives to maturity Incidentally, I know what a pitchfork looks like. I can correctly ID a garden fork. What I don’t know is how I traversed to the shop intending to purchase a new garden fork, but returned with a pitchfork.  Oh. Um. I linger over the mistake.  Ultimately, we don’t need a new pitchfork. This embarrassment must be tackled. Nip back to the farm supplies shop. ‘I’m having one of those days.’ I speak, blithely, as though this muddle is phenomenally common. Everyone in earshot enjoys the story. (Maybe this is my till-side debut?) We need a new garden fork because the previous occupant of that position is snapped in two, whilst uprooting blackcurrant bushes from the old fruit garden. It’s not an opportune moment to move currant bushes, according to the Fruit Expert calendar. It’s a moving house dig it up or lose it moment. It’s a fruit gamble. We also pack into the car the red and white currant bushes, the raspberr

The first time Dog is brought to the cut field it is alien under her paws and the straw monoliths strike a fear into her dog heart. She slinks the edge of it, tail down. This second time, Dog perceives that there are birds to chase and she is gone, lost in the joy of the chase. She is a grain of rice, a tiny horizontal in the repetitive verticals of stalk. To the end of the field, full tilt, disappears into the drainage ditch. I trust in her return. I wait and the wind shakes my hair, flares my dress, breathes over my skin. There is warmth in the touch of it. The tractor treads under my feet have a pleasing solidity. When my speck of spaniel comes back, it is clear that the mud in the ditch is half a Dog in depth. We trot back up the lane; the wind hollers overhead, turns all Dog’s fur backwards. 

There’s turbulence in the chimney, and what I can see of the fat trunked ash tree is flailing; flails of branch framed by wet squares of glass. I sit at my table, sipping hot super strength coffee, hearing the rhythm of the storm. Dog sighs, curled up and towel fluffed, in her basket. Earlier, we were stomping through the lanes, under the pelt of the rain. Mr had a futile waterproof layer. It keeps the rain out, he reports, and the sweat in. I show him the body of the fox, lying at the crux of the field entrance; what is left of it now, melting into the grass. We press on, footsteps splashing. I admire the insects still out flying: the dodge of the fingerprint sized white butterflies. 

Dog scuffles the lane, looking for the pale fox; the almost strawberry blonde fox; that stopped and stared at us last time we walked here. After assessing the situation fox decided to skittle up through the undergrowth. Dog gets twig-tangled trying to recreate the scene. I call her back and unpick a half metre of hawthorn from her tail. She darts into the quarry in case fox is digging an escape tunnel. She runs round and round, in constant motion like a river, the spaniel embodiment of an eddying river.  At first I think there is a pile of fluff at the field gate. It is the body of a light brown fox. An intact forepaw reaches out, as though it had one clever line to die with, and needed to still the audience. The rest of it is a city of maggots. I’m fascinated by the commute lines that wriggle the length of an exposed rib; by the patterns of undulations as they swiftly recycle the fox flesh. We walk on; Dog keeps up the scuffling.  Until stilled at home, wondering where t

As well as being inclined to operate swiftly, one likes to conserve energy, so now I’ve hit on the idea that when nominated for an award, I simply check out and re-nominate my fellow awardees, I shall adhere to this self established protocol. If you are seeking out new blogs, simply follow the links- there is quite a range of stuff here, as I would expect from Jacqueline at Blether , she likes to mix it up (that's her lovely dragonfly symbol picture above.) She has kindly put forward this list, and asked of us some questions, which I shall not be lazy or sneaky enough to wangle out of. 1. Renae at *simple sequins* 2. Mary at merrydotdandy 3. Starr at The Kiefer Cottage 4. Lily Tequila at Wishbone Soup Cures Everything 5. Ana at .Introverted Art. 6. Bama Trav at Bama Trav 7. Phanit at Considerations 8. Estilio Sierra at Estilio Sierra 9. Debbie at Flower Child Designs 10. Carolyn at Letters From An Urban Trench 11. Jake from A

On Saturday evening I’m stepping through guy ropes, walking towards the car with the open boot, wading through children, ears full of shrill explosions. I can smell fried potato. Fry smells and kerfuffles in a field reminds me of festivals. I very much like festivals, but this aces every awesome weekend I’ve ever spent in a field. While I’m persuading the hungry throng to reform as an orderly queue; roll my eyes, tell my fellow team leader, ‘This is like working for the UN.’ This flippancy hits some giggle points but, in the other hand, holds a confident pinch of truth. Between us here; the bold group leaders, the tireless kitchen crew, the patient site staff, the jolly trio that set up the archery contest; we have something to bring to the turbulent path from childhood to adult life. Let’s pick on the small kid for an example. Cried on Friday, afraid of being left parentless in a tent. Tent and team mates express sympathy. His team leaders tell him this is a normal react

Stalking yellow corpulent machinery has hoovered up all the ripe rapeseed. Heat steams up in fabulous clouds, or fabulous cloud buildings are built on strong thermals, I’m not sure. I’m hot to a point of malfunctioning. Washing is pegged, boldly, outside. My car is languidly crammed with expedient items. Tent. Stories. Clothes that will be unscathed when soaked in a mass water fight. Torch. Notebook. Pen. Coffee. Sat nav. Address to input to sat nav. More coffee. This weekend the tent will pop up in a field with 130 children. On Friday- today! - I need to find the field. On Saturday I am reading a fire lit story. On Sunday- I really should have read the memo. On Monday, catch up sleep. Regale tales of my fireside debut. Leaving Mr at home with a cooked chicken and a vision of attic storage. 

Yesterday the evening sky was painted on in broad strokes, so accomplished I could have stood to applaud, only I was being driven beneath it in a VW Passat. Dreaming in the passenger side, the hedge flashes past, thoughts keep speed. There’s a cloud I see so pink and fluffy you could prong it on a fork and toast it in a fire. Sleep well, after all that awe and gawping. This morning’s sky is a scene of mountainous cloud peaks. From my seat at the oak bureaux I am smiling down on lively Friesians, huddling and milling like children in a gossipy school field. I can see fingers of dead branch on the fat trunked ash tree, see the hairy ridge of hedges huffle round the fields, see the flouting billow of treetops, catch the stalking yellow top of corpulent machinery. Between a square biscuit of ripening crop and the icy cloud summits, a strip of dark moorland. On the furthest hill, patches of field are stitched together by bobbled trees. 

Lamb’s Tongue ferns under the thick tree cover; shadowed, warm, glossy wet. All the growth is lushly tumbled, and hints at some secret order, a living knot. Where the hedges are straight trimmed, furls of blackberries peek. Simple blossoms summon bees. Punchy green nublets dance flyweight in a bounce of breeze; cumbersome indigo globules drop, ripe, into my palm. Each taste of this year’s hedge crop is palatably pleasant. I test each one I find, expecting the sour sharp thrill of the berry that is not as ready as it looks. Come home to a long cooling shower, two poached eggs and a coffee zing. Trek down to the old house to puzzle over what bits we should recover from the wreck of the shed; aka ‘ Old Farmer Landlord’s Museum Of Agricultural Artefacts And Sundry Items ;’ what we should ferry to the tip. Today’s further bounty is a boxful of compost, the old petrol mower, four tyres to stack and cram with future compost, a surfboard rack and a wheel rim, to be used as a po

Sunday: Crunching Arthropods Finding ourselves at a loss, a literal loss of outgoings outweighing incoming expense, we harness Dog and houseguest Fat Beagle for a trawl through the lanes in hot wet tropical weather. Not quite thinking, we have put waterproofs on and drench them from the inside with perspiration. Peeling off coats attracts fly bites. Uncomfortable under the weight of humid air, under the worry of money, under the puncturing attack of binary winged malevolents, cheerless steps squish along: then over a high hedge there arrives a burly dragonfly, in hunt for a lunch of crunchy arthropods. Later this day, between downpours, we slip the sodden tent from its wrappings and resurrect it in the garden. Mr pegs it out while I boil water for pasta; chop onions, stir a can of tomatoes, think of the dragonfly, the vibrant charge of it. Monday: Italics Even after the clever interventions of Girl’s Boyfriend; the internet works then it doesn’t wor

(This is an old picture, and an optimistic approximation of what I look like whilst beach training.) July 26th Update: Baby brings her new paddling pool over, to demonstrate a slapstick series of splashy falls. Indoors, under the stairs, the tent is found. Also, in other scattered places, further camping sundries. And a spare tent, utilised instantly as a spare room for amassing all located camping sundries, so as not to unlocate them in the house of boxes. Five days worth of washing is squashed into drawers. Boxes are pushed into cupboards, squeezed under the makeshift sofa. I write a daunting list of things to do and pour a glass of whisky. Aged 12 years, it says on the label. Probably have, I say back, hence the need for a strong swig. Friday: Starts with a run. The day has a running pace. One precious hour spent, sprawled in the garden, reading Asimov. Then, preparation for a week under canvas, a week of twice a day Tae Kwon Do training. The weather looks set to break.

Wednesday: A heat mist over the fields this morning calls up a favourite description from the diaries of Admiral Yi Sun Sin: the earth as a scalding pot of soup. On this steaming day, sweeping and cleaning and the last of the indoor clearing is done. We are prepared to hand over the keys of Rosehill, our former abode. I write ‘prepared’ as old Farmer Landlord is unlikely to be where he says when he says. And the moving saga isn’t over until the fruit bushes are brought to the long garden space at Number Three. And the telegraph pole. My car holds gallons, gallons and more gallons of wine in many shapes of flagon, and a chainsaw, and a galvanised bin. Carefully driven around corners. Reversed clumsily from heat of driveway to shade of shed. No one wants to work, we are too busy melting. Mr drives the hot road to Plymouth. I flop in the passenger seat, hypnotised by the half popped bubble of moon. As the road cools, the moon thickens. On the home stretch, I see clearly

Sunday : Stumped by the internet, a repetition of which we are quite bored. Metaphorically, head meets wall. Head meets wall again. Head aches. Wall remains incommunicative. Sunshine bakes our wearied faces as we shift more loads to the tip. Each fling and release of bin sack, broken box, bit of unmendable thing into the regrettable landfill, each ditch of a reusable item to the recyclable container, takes some stress with it. On the home journey, wind the car windows down, watch Dog’s ears cavort in the air current. At home, eat pudding outside. Home-grown raspberries. Fat trunked ash tree reaches into the blue. Sparrows fetch their fledglings supper. Monday: The internet we do not speak of. The heat is mentioned. The car is loaded, unloaded, grime builds an underlayer, a slime between skin and cotton, it smells like earthy hard work. These are the last days of toil; this is mentioned. Tuesday: Charging up for a sprint finish. When I was a child we seemed to move house

Thursday: A short trip to the tip before the welcome diversion of work. Friday: Long trips to the tip, scooping out a clear floor in Girl’s garage. Long trips to fill it up again with items to puzzle over later. Mostly glass jars for brewing. Long does not denote distance here but effort. My fingers are porcupined with flakes of rusted metal. Saturday: Discover that the sofa will dent the ceiling of the entrance hallway but not fit into the house. Sofa is sent to the holding pen of Girl’s garage. Returning to Number Three I forget to put the latch on. Mr shuts the front and only door. Mr climbs in through the window to let us back in again. We have hired, used, returned the nifty van. My objective for the day’s end was to be sat on our sofa: I had not envisioned sitting in a garage looking at all the other stuff that doesn’t fit. Sorry says Mr, for his measuring had proven fallible. We both sigh. At the old house, trundling dusty things into collecting points- here for t

A little bit of sharing; this project has been going on in the background for a while. About time I cracked on with it! Fairly happy with it up to verse 462, only another 538 to go.  One Thousand Miracles In One Day (The first ten verses, first edit.)     Down the wall a spider walks Unseen, the whisper of eight feet Unheard on the wallpaper, this is A secret world, a spider’s world     At the zero hour it seems nothing exists But the deep breathing of sleep And the heaving of wind in darkness Bowing trees as though dragons fly here Uncounted leaves stream, pulling On thin stems, twisting loose, one leaf Takes hold of the air, it has no plans For landing, that will just happen Droplets absorb night, outside Dark rain falls, clouds Thicken sky, at the deepest Point of our dreaming sleep Too far above to permeate sleep An aeroplane passes, full of journeys Full of stories we will not hear, the travellers Look down at pat

Monday: I can’t remember what happens on Monday; by Tuesday it has gone. I’m not sure how that happened. Evidence suggests overseeing the migration of cardboard boxes. Tuesday: A knock on the door is my neighbour, excitedly gesticulating, asking if we are missing a ferret. I think about it. No, we don’t have a ferret. Cat has learnt to use the cat flap, Dog compulsively flushes birds out of crop fields, Rabbit likes to sit in the under space of his hutch and watch the green lawn world. There is not a ferret missing from this scene. Later in the day, as I am waiting in the road while a breakdown flatbed winches a silver car to the curb, my neighbour passes. They took the ferret to the vet, I learn. It’s a baby. I update Mr on the story and he trumps me by suspecting a cuckoo, having found a fledgling dead upon the ground under the sparrow nest. Wednesday: Been working, while estranged from the www. All this house moving malarkey also interrupts my access to concentrat

Thursday : After so much rain, the clouds lay flat out, from corner to corner of a washed out sky. Tyres in swathes of water spray out wings either side of every car. We travel, a line of neckless swans, on the dark wet road, wondering where the summer is hiding. Everyone sighs. Back at the old house, clothes flopping in the tumble dryer, I heat a kettle on a blue gas flame till it whistles. Make hot chocolate, a mugful. Friday : I am trying to set the router up. At this point I a person who does not care about weather, or chocolate. Boy is brave enough to help. Mr says he loves me. I say I will love everyone when the internet works. The instructions for accessing the connection are on an email. Which I can’t access. It is time to walk away from all things electrical, taking deep breaths. It’s only another little tribulation, on a sense of scale distorted by frustration. Baby gleams, playing hide and seek under a duvet. She wears a toilet roll inner tube as a bracelet.