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Christmas Story 2012

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[Adaptation of a story by Joanna Erdody: not sure if she was the original author. I have a battered childhood copy that is not dated and has no ISBN number but before it was mine some old pencil lettering tells me it was once the property of Margaret Bradley, 48 Scott Road.] The Vain Little Tree The little tree thought to himself, again, how lucky he was to have grown so beautiful, and he felt sorry for the people who were trudging by, sighing over his perfect form. They couldn't take him to their homes. He had a card ticket tied to one of his emerald branches with a red silk ribbon. It spelt out the word RESERVED in gold lettering. He felt sorry for the other trees who did not know where they would be sent. By the end of the day, some of the others also had tickets, though the card was thinner and they were tied on with string. The tall grandfather tree held up his ticket and peered at it in the dim light. 'Ah,' he said. 'It seems I am

Officially Winter

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Behind the glass of passenger side window, artificially lit. Car park is sparsely populated. Wind blows, desolate resonance; shakes the last of the leaves from the token trees growing from graveled squares. Coffee banners thrill in the fight with unseen forces. Inside the superstore warmth is wafted through aisles of every kind of fruit. Breath hot into the wool loops of scarf. Glance up, only a glance is required. Mr has a signature walk, I always know it. I wonder how many steps I have watched him take. I always know him, but never quite what will be in the shopping bag. Brandy, port, two packs of thermal clothing. 

Aurora

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Decision to take an early brisk walk is slowed by the ice underfoot. The verges have enough rough ground to hold steps at the width and length intended. Dog paws perhaps are made of rough ground, for she doesn't slip on any angle of hill; pads on any piece of tarmac she pleases. We are on the run of lane from Treniffle to Luccombe when the dark sky breaks. Cloud soaks up a flow of saffron light, it billows out like flaming June. Once I caught the edge of the Northern Lights; it was like this, luminosity flaring from night, just as suddenly gone. The risen sun and its tangerine finery slide behind muffling cloud. Dog and I walk, crunching ice, under the quilted silver.

Unseen Footage

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There was no camera handy to record two of Baby's best happenings today. The fall from the wash basket was clicked, and the sleeping on sofa with Dog. The first unseen piece was playing in the water that gathers in the kayak, using an empty snail shell as a dainty cup, and a piece of fir twig as a spoon. Ingestion was gently dissuaded for sanitary reasons; by way of a distraction because I should dislike to curb those fey impulses. We took ourselves to the little stone shed to watch Grandad fine tune the chainsaw. Down at the woodpile, Grandad hewed old trunks and Baby was introduced to cows. At first they were giant heads squeezed over the low wall and under the bars, with brown eyes even wider than Baby's. She put out a hand and a cow tongue rasped the quilt of her coat sleeve. After a few laughing fits, Baby gathers handfuls of hay to put over the low wall. The cows are not cows, incidentally, they are skitty bullocks, most uncertain of the kneehigh pink coated t

Here

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Tiny spitballs of ice hit down from a bland winter sky. News comes along the relay line: crashed out friend in the hospital bed continues to improve. Not the most comfortable progress: he tries to pull out the drip feed, the instinct of fight and flight being much deeper than common sense. The outcome could have been more funereal. Instead, here is a kind of hibernation. Sleeping though the bleakest hours; waking, slowly, numbed; senses clearing, drop by drop. If you were ever going to revaluate your life, then here is the moment for it, the perfect bruised and bashed up moment. Are you thinking about it? I rub my fingertips where the blood-flow has slowed. 

Etymology Of Cake

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Little Grandson studies a cup cake. Our crashed out friend in the hospital bed will be kept under sedation for 72 hours. Prognosis suggests that shortly after that we can queue up to be joyfully annoyed with him for the superfluous drama. Fingers are crossed, candles lit. Fingers tap on a table top. Thumbs twizzle. Concentration, hmmm….something I put down and can't relocate. I had already made soup, so cake was next. My Christmas culinary distraction cake. It was neither precisely measured nor expertly made. The act of slopping butter with sugar, the paring of peel, squeezing fresh citrus juice, dropping dried fruit over the washing up rack, the awkwardness with which I cut the baking paper and had to peg the sides in place to get the mixture in, the boozy soaked fruity mix that part way through baking acquired a thin layer of charred skin; the way I had to really think about the timings because I was tired and not concentrating? It passed the time productively

Whale And Cross

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Last night the Christmas lights of Cadgwith were switched on. It was a clear cold night and the switch needed throwing twice to shake the power through the homely strung decorations. Neon dolphins swung over the sea, there was a whale hitched to the miniature peninsular known locally as the Todden. Above the colourful whale is a plain lit cross, for the memory of those lost at sea. Everyone had a fair try at singing. Santa was sat in a makeshift grotto; we sat outside the pub watching children brandish their treats. Back to our home for the night, a fine granite chunk of a cottage, for a large glass of wine, a sauna (splendid what you can find in a cottage sometimes) and a curry feast cooked by our splendid host. For the grand finale, a debate over whether Florentines are a biscuit or a cake, myself being of the opinion 'biscuit.' Word games can last for years with the addition of wine fuelled questioning. Cleared our heads this morning with sea air, another saun

Buddha In December

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First day of the last month. Mist from the Tamar valley rises up to a fat cloud: the Buddha of Sky Water. Out of the mist, the sound of gunshot: the cycle of life and death. Sun pierces everything, one last time. After this its reach will weaken. We must hold our own warmth. At the end of my morning shower, turn the dial to a cold setting. From feet to head the nozzle travels and my muscles twitch like river fish and my skin vibrates and my gasps are laughing. Alive and warm. After breakfast, brew coffee, bitter hot and fierce in strength. Awake. 

False Start Friday: More Charleigh, 1971

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A further extract from what has already been rescued from my personal slush pile, so strictly speaking it's not a false start BUT it has proved popular so one more glimpse before I get back to making this project work.  *** Mother possessed thin brown hair but her ears didn't stick out.   Her belly did.   After marriage, after babies, after beer drinking, a belly was the end of the production line.   Brown, orange, yellow, swirls and flowers: optional, thank the Bloody Merry Lord, but the life conveyor belt would carry you along. Owning a Strawberry Dress could make you happy but it wouldn't free you from the list that read: School Work Husband Babies Beer Belly The End. Charleigh wonders when her married sisters will have babies. Damn: more babies, and they'll bring them round here for a bloody bath.   They already pop in for cups of tea.   Life should span more than a couple of streets.   If you were lucky you might go on a honeymoon, yo

Early Winter Postcard

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Dear World, I am writing to you from a day near the end of November. This morning the moon lit up the sky, and hung around for a while after the sun turned up. Both of them together made the ground frost sparkle, and helped me find where the surface water was frozen still. In the dip by the Small Woods I thought to find thick ice but the tree shelter had huddled it; by the house where the sun hits, I was surprised by the slippery road. First clouds of the morning were silver, and the second batch was pink. By mid morning they were a soft wash of white and the frost held in the shadows. My eyes were full of sun glare and bare trees. Later the cloud fanned out, reminded me of a white peacock I saw once; a snow peacock. Later still, the sky got darkened drop by drop. Did you ever draw a picture in wax crayon then paint over it? The moon was orange wax in the watery dark. We thought of pressing our hands to the sky, to colour palms with night ink. I would make a print and alway

Curve

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Unbedded myself in the dark for an early walk with Dog. As I walked, light seeped upwards: it would be amusing if the two events were linked. I could walk backwards into midnight. After breakfast, coffee and driving Boy to school, straight to painting, which forms the main activity of the day. Little pictures, coming to life. Full moon rolls along the horizon like a beautiful lazy eye. Bright planet beside it is a mere pin. Or a very small eye in a heavenly cubist face? A young man in shorts flags down our homeward bound car. He has a car but it has bounced off the hedge, rolled, righted, stopped with immovably busted wheels, equidistant between hedges, neatly blocking the road. 'Sorry,' he says. 'Learning curve,' says Mr. We flag down cars while he phones his parents, until the police arrive with flashy lights and high vis jackets. Big faced moon in a clear sky sees all. At home, via small detour roads, we drink dark hot frothed up mocha. 

Watercolour Fright

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I go down by the swollen river to have an adventure with Dog mainly as a psyching up exercise. Watercolours aren't intimidating unless you haven't painted a picture in a while and now you have ten lined up in front of a deadline. It is good to give yourself a scare. Projects are leaping out from behind trees: ideas burst from my head like birthing aliens. After the walk, after lighting the fire, after making coffee, after hanging up the washing, I run out of viable procrastinations and am forced to pick up a paintbrush. My painting is very much as my drawing is: no one will ever hire me for technical skill. As long as I hold my nerve I have a style that is lively and emotive. The whole is decidedly greater than the sum of the parts. At ten pm my fingers start to cramp so it is time to change media, to tap a keyboard, sum the day's lesson up.  Work in progress :-) 

Deciduous

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Weary journeying (one car, broken, one tow truck, four hours later...) Two days without a blog post, which does not mean two days without writing. My lucky friends and legitimised eavesdroppers on Facebook and Twitter have had their time enriched by apocryphal drops of my legendary life (eating pasta out of Tupperware in a service station car park, drinking wine from a Travelodge mug: then I read up on them: weary journeying versus the joys of sweat and medals.) This weekend I spent nine and one half hours listening to rain hit a windscreen; less the brief lull of each concrete bridge. Leaves of warm colours drop from trees, at the edge of the road, in clusters in the flooded fields, I watch them and where my eyes wander my thoughts fly. People in autumn wear warm colours; that is the start of my thinking. But in winter they don't drop layers, like these bare branches that best display the stark beauty of the darkest season.  What people take t

Rose Tinted Flesh

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If there exists anything more expressive of delight than Dog, freed of her stitches, head cone and lead, galloping through seawater, I should like to experience it. It is a step past my imagination. Her fresh scar is bright pink in the cold salt. I take my boots off. The sea has sharpened its teeth since my last paddle, the first bite of winter fastens to my feet. A lady with a bouncy terrier stops to tell me she thought I had pink Wellingtons on, until she saw the boots in my hand. She can't get down to loosen her laces so easy these days, she says, so best get your feet wet while you can, eh? Submerged in the sound of the surf, watching the running Dog, shivery foam on the tide line, waves that flow in long and shallow, the pearlescent prettiness of reflected sky; feel the icy sting on wet bare skin. See the rocks that the gods of geology fold up like a causal sandwich. Get in my car, the heater works. Dog sleeps on her sandy blanket. 

Heavy Weather

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Note: tent in background still looks lively. Cat sits on an upstairs windowsill, watching the storm pounce. It may catch a bird or two for her. The birds are erratic, jerking like unpractised stunt kites. Cone headed Dog is caught in a cross wind, I hold her lead tight but she stays ground based. Trees grow a voice from the storm, from a whisper to a full dragon's roar. In the garden the big tent jelly wobbles, holds fast, is assassinated by a flying plank. Vexing. On the road to Bude stretches of glossy black water sidle over the tarmac. They look sticky and steal all traction. Note: tent, much smaller now

Pros And Cons

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Cone headed Dog is on a restricted walking programme. She is on the leash and off the grass, while her belly hosts a row of Frankenweenie stitches. These are not her favourite circumstances, but we take a walk up through Lawhitton which is different and smells different and thus adds interest to the restricted day. We meet a gentleman who extols the virtues of a stiff walk, who tells us that the water has dropped from the moors and the river has come out. Old language converges with new meaning: I picture a river full of gaily proud spangled bikinis, but on looking, the brown fields of flood water lie flat. Most of the day I make tiny marks with my drawing pens, bringing depth to cute pictures. My shoulder aches and a bath, a hot bath is what I want. When I get to it though, it's run out of heat. Warm enough to wash. Meanwhile, I think of things that people like to write in lists, desirous things to do in a lifetime. If you get to the top of the mountain (literal or m