Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

This is a sales pitch, of a sort. Not something I was born for, maybe I will think of it more as a performance: stage fright is the right sort of uncomfortable. This morning: traded a sixty pence parking fee and a jar of diesel for an hour at Widemouth Bay. Parked south, walked north, where the salt spray spumed from every jag of rock. Body tucked in a winter coat, trousers rolled up, flip-flops dumped in the car. Messy waves wash in warm, spread a brief mirror on the sand. The sun is floored, but still untouchable, no matter how much I give chase. The cold wind is what I breathe in, is what sticks to my wet legs as we tread sand back to the car. Put the choky old heater on. Sand is what I wear on my feet to drive home. This morning's journey is the pause I take before pressing the publish button. I'm not sure if it makes any sense, but it feels like a good adventure to have- this is what I've put together- 'Soup By Volume: A collection of eccentric, p

Today I felt exactly as portrayed. I remembered this poem, which my friend wrote, which is about me. I thought of it, glanced up, and there it was, telling me, yes, this is who you are, lady, this is who you are. It was written back in 1991, when I wish I felt like this. I found her I didn't look for her The hazy shine of a future brought her to me today Her mind grows with the bitter smell of morning coffee And tales from old wives. She's no hippy or earth mother She blows in like the driftwood and seaweed on The surf of the waves, evenly culled onto the shore- But she's firmly locked. The squelchy sand poses no threat for her, She leaves an even perfect footprint on the cool mineral. It's fresh, it may fade, who knows? Still her childlike perfection and security has impregnated it, Like the smell of rain sprinkled on tired streets. Feelings and words restrain me- she knows no fault Only the confident waver of a daisy in the s

Night comes, all gaping jaws, all flail and spit; I feel it; it holds it does not bite, it will run and I will cling to the thrill of it: the journey has music, a pulse, a suddenness, a storm brewing: it bursts like a bruise, flowing outwards, under tender skin: teeth press the breath from flesh, everything is shaken up; claws snick on tarmac; and I cling to the thrill of it: rain falls, glass rain; each drop shatters, makes slicing pools where the world is cut in two, is turned upside down: here in the teeth of the beast, thrown between worlds; I feel it; it holds, it presses, it could bite; I know this is how the journey goes: at the heart of this knowledge, lodged secure, a strange safety, a strange peace, keeps a steady, quiet beat.

This morning, white river mist trims the dark valley slopes: in the sky, gold sorbet cloud. My eyes follow and rise. I receive the sight like a blessing. Yesterday's yearning for a heated beach is scoffed at. Until I take myself back to our little office room and sit at my desk, then it makes more sense. I'm ready for my reward now, for a shore of cash. Up lights the laptop screen. Bing! I got blogmail: 'Can I simply say what a comfort to find someone that really knows what they are talking about on the internet. More people ought to read this and understand this side of the story. You surely have the gift. I can definitely help you to get your talent shown and recognised worldwide, visit my website: CashLoansForValium&FashionPurchase.'

Slavish devotion to laptop today, obsessed by learning to format an ebook. Rather startled to find there are people talking to me. Apologies, family. And knees: I have ice knee caps. Tellingly, I have remembered to feed the dog. Feed, and walk. This morning, before my laptop pinged on and the rest of the known universe vanished, all I wanted to think of was taking a holiday; flicking lazy feet over warm sand. Me and Dog sent up a neat spray of last night's rain, there were still strawberries to be found, so I could not think why I needed ; it felt like I needed ; to skip over a tropical beach. My hand on the door handle as the heavy rain falls. The smell of refreshed earth follows me in. Up to the bedroom to find a towel, and stop, and find that I am caught in the rain, in the lush-heavy sound of it.

All day, a shroud for a sky: does it bode? I don’t wish for it to bode. It is a trick of light, only, an evocative illumination. Yesterday’s figures of mist, drift to mind; reminds me to be respectful where I tread, for the dead are many and life is finite. This land is made of their labours. Slugs in the lane are feasting on bits of their tyre-split colleagues. It is the job of a slug, this pragmatic clean up. And since they eat in the road, in the tyre-smoothed section of road, it has a macabre circle of life vibe to it. As a restaurant concept, unlikely, but then slugs are not good at PR. There are wild strawberries, in the hedge, still finding enough light to ripe, we pluck out two or three each: carefully watching for traffic. 

You can really launch yourself into an egg, Granma. You really can. Luckily, 4am was a false start. Tucked back in, Baby remembered sleep for a few hours more. Figures of mist drift in the field, later, after toast and egg. Dog gallops through them. I watch Baby in her Wellington boots fall over the tractor tracks. Mud print hands held up: ‘Oh no!’ Her sing-song steps and words, over the embossed earth, under the faint sky. Back to the road, to pretty stomps in puddles. Back to the coffee pot: Granma is flagging. Boots discarded, just a little way before reaching dry land, she takes on tasks: wearing sideways flip-flops, dipping a cup into Dog’s delicious looking water; oh, it has hair floating in it, fascinating, heh, heh, if I turn my back on Granma she’ll never know I am dipping my cup in here for a swig ; and what are these books doing, cluttering up the shelves? Wry smiling Granma hugs the hot espresso.  Dog, if they ask, you ain't seen me.