Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

[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

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. 

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.

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

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. 

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

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