Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Astonishment at the surprise wedding rings around our heads. Stopping and smiling happens frequently. Easy to be almost cross, because of the shock: more powerful than I would have guessed. Impossible to be cross, because it was utterly brilliant. Perfect life theatre. Plugged the stereo in this morning, rang out the Christmas carols, spun, balletic, across the swept carpet while Dog sighed on the sofa. Plenty of other drama going on in the world. Music wrings out a release of tears- exaltation and sorrows in salted drops. Too much emotion before breakfast. One banana, one ginger tea: ready for a quiet day. Girl is away on a family tour, so I go to her house to feed Bunny and borrow a vacuum cleaner that works, and furthermore actually do use it to clean all of our carpets. I wrap some presents for Boy right under his nose. (Again! Score 5 mum points!) There isn't much, but there isn't nothing. In the evening steam from the fire heated water soaks the whole bat

The party we turn up for is an engagement celebration. The couple are running late. I am keeping a fidgety Baby amused and Little Grandson is sat eating a bag of crisps. I can't see Mr Craig when he steps into the Saddler's pub, only I hear him call for our attention. When the crowd quiets he says, and his voice is so serious: 'There isn't going to be an engagement party tonight:' Earth stops turning. You can feel hearts thudding. 'Because in half an hour Natalie and I are getting married.' Jaws drop, eyes swim, we check on Granma's pacemaker. When I see how he is dressed, it makes clearer sense; though it's all a pinch past articulation, we are not convinced this is not a dream. To the gorgeous Georgian venue we go, all shook up: such a sneaky well orchestrated boggling fantastic jolt…

Bacon fizzing under the grill. Egg whites spread in the little iron pan, lace edged. My coffee has the strength of a healthy elephant. We are doing that happy with a hint of panic, enjoying the day but so keen not to be late for the family fling thing. Can't recall which farm the bacon hails from, but it's close to here. Eggs from the Nextdoor Chickens. Bread from Parker's Bakery. Salt and pepper from ceramic aeroplanes, holiday presents both. Cutlery from everywhere, some of which matches. Crockery, ditto. For a moment after eating, stilled contentment. Washing machine rolls a load of work clothes. There's no hurry on when they dry. I'm not sure what I'll wear for the party. I had better go and throw lots of not quite right attire onto the bed. Dog is ready! 

Another day the earth was destined to end passes by. It goes by faster than other days, which is why I'm sat typing earlier the next day, by GMT time. But it's not faster than every day. It was the solstice day. The tipping point. There are always times when it seems the world ends. This poem by John Donne has always evoked for me that sense of personal doom, so sadly, beautifully linked with the winter pulse: 'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;          The sun is spent, and now his flasks          Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;                 The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the n

The river is wider than its banks. Enviable lawn space of the house on the end dips into an unplanned stretch of pond. This morning's rain, soaked up on a round trip of the park, seemed slighter than it was: my coat stays wet all day. Maybe I wasn't as attentive to the weather as is usual. A chance examination of the coat rack finds a spare. It's bright blue, brings a touch of Mediterranean cheer. While Dog tries her luck at smuggling wet fur onto the sofa, I'm googling post car crash brain injuries. Recovery of our crashed out friend is protracted, trickier than anticipated. As if some sort of universal sympathy is channeled, to start and finish a job today is rare. Highlight so far is the hour and a half wait for the soup, left defrosting on the wrong hob placement. When Boy watches Air Disaster Analysis, these are the kind of trivial incidents that add up to a blazing wreck. I will leave the keys to the plane at home tonight, pull on the ebullien

Tired. Close to end of year. But here is a snippety bit of the third novel I am being slavish over right now- this is a work in progress piece, but it sums the character up and she is getting ready for a Christmas jaunt. This is the 'before' of the writing: might post the 'after' next year!  *** Lilith wakes up in a cold bath.  She has no time to wash her hair now so she degreases her self-cut bleach mop with some glittery talc, which spills all over her body.  She peels on her short red dress, discovers all her tights are in the wash, she finds some red satin trousers.  There isn’t much time for make-up either so she draws on some red lipstick and splodges on more glitter. ‘Punk chic,’ she tells the mirror, as though it is questioning her outfit.                                             ***

[Fiction inspired by the weather- and just in case it is not clear a) I am not a werewolf; b) I do not own a wolf skin coat. ] The wind is singing, all those wild wordless sounds that shiver out the feral heart of me.  I want to pull on my wolf-skin and run through the dark.  There are millions of teeth in my mouth, each one is crazy and fierce.  I can run until my feral heart beats so loud all I can hear is myself and it's dark and there's nothing to be seen and there is only me running through space for nothing else exists at all. When I return to the world, in human skin, I will lie on the couch and listen to the wind song and settle into sleep. Dream of the unchecked run: dream of space.