Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Three strawberry flowers in the hedge, too damp and dark to make fruit. Cheerful little things, they seem happy to be nodding in a winter breeze. Dog waits for me at the corner, patient with my need to think. The last day of any year calls for reflection, itches for projection. We see how we got here, and where we should like to be. Sometimes we remember where we thought we would be by now, and feel inclined to give up. I've had those years, where the idea of making resolutions was the idea of setting oneself up to be disappointed: where I have forgotten to factor in how life can wallop a person off track. I won't give up on building my bridge, from here to where things are so much tidier and we own a camper van. I think, while Dog splashes. All the lanes teeming with streams of turning water, noisy like a running bath. So much surface water, sees me, and still a skyful of cloud? Two kayaks in the garden, and two paddles…

Dark and early, the storm struck. Thunder, overhead, close enough to knock birds from perches; the window panes flex, but hold to their frames, and rain is burst from rift heavens. Baby and Grandad don't shift or twitch, they must be in some other world. No booming there, only snoring. When Granma gets out of bed, she needs coffee. Everyone talks about the storm. The fear of God is rediscovered. 'I thought the world was ending,' Girl says, 'I thought, those damn Mayans got the date wrong- it's today!' She pulls that face where her eyes are two glazed earthenware saucers. The end of the year is close, I am thinking, what sort of reality should I like to live in next: how should the 2013 world look? On the wide wood of our windowsill, the beckoning cat keeps busy, hustling luck from silver clouded sky, arm clicking like a metronome.

Eating toast, suppertime toast, with a choice of toppings. Butter, I reach for, and uncap the whiskey marmalade. I have a wide bladed knife in hand. The butter is room temperature, the Rayburn has been lit all day. The bread had staled but a stint in the toaster makes it fine. From rising late, the day has yawned, stretched as far as walking in the park. The house has a scent of wood dust, as Mr has a new shelf in progress, and a scattered mess of chewed cardboard, as Baby had a grand game with Dog, before being transferred to her travel cot, where she sleeps now, huddled by old teddy bears. Downstairs, full of supper, her Grandparents get a wine buzz going. [Some Credits: Whiskey Marmalade, made by Mrs Naylor (mother of two junior Black Belts) Choice of toppings included Turkey Liver Pâté by Mrs Philpotts (mother of a future Black Belt) Baby, raised by Girl Choice of wine with thanks to students, parents of students and family]

Southwesterly, the wind, the accumulated magnitude, the breath of the tempest; presses against the body of the rippled ocean, drives it in mad waves onto rocks, spume flung atop the cliff where we hover, balanced with outstretched arms, with tugged coat sleeves, the wind with such strength: we can calculate how to move, how to fly in this unrelented howl: if only we had wings. No bigger than gulls: flecks on rockscape.

Slants of rain hit a tribe of pheasants in the field opposite. Thirteen have gathered, Mr has counted. Through rain and a lumbrous effort of cloud, sun diffuses strong light, gives the unwary a dose of starburst eyes. Our solar powered waving cat is busy bringing in luck, and a rainbow passes close by. Maybe good portents, maybe not: if I focus correctly, how can they be less? I practise my attitude through the medium of words, until it becomes my practice. Always that infusion from verb to noun, from the present action to the future reality. 'It is often forgotten that (dictionaries) are artificial repositories, put together well after the languages they define. The roots of language are irrational and of a magical nature.' Jorge Luis Borges.

In spite of the laden table; the clove studded ham, the barrage of cheeses, pâtés, breads, soups, cheesescakes, crumbles, crisps, olives, grapes; everything even has its own knife or spoon or ladle and the plates match the bowls; in spite of this carnal level of celebration, I do not believe we would revel like this if the company was wrong. The main thing is, we are here together. That is the real rich stuff. Dog sleeps under the table. She is all run out from a stroll at Sandy Bay. Fat Beagle galloped like a puppy in the wave spray. Bouncy Beagle ran through the landslide mud, made a terracotta hound of himself. Wow, we said, will you look at the grand scale of the slid earth there, and those tonnes of thrown down stone? It has a look of a communal exodus; suddenly, all those tonnes, landing. The beach must shake. Remarkable, we agree: but if the time were tallied, more of it is spent admiring the happiness of dogs.

Presents and feasting and company later. Here, first awake in the house, I sneak myself downstairs to play with words which are always my favourite toys. If this seems a trivial thing to say, you have misunderstood the art of playing. Three chocolates slip into my mouth, longing to melt. Coffee keeps the sweetness in check. Smells like a coffeehouse: pithy, pungent first brew. Starling song and choral harmony and footsteps next door I hear. Letter squares on my keyboard, set out in a grid like the table of elements; beyond this, the washing that still needs drying but is tucked back from the centre, the snoozing dog who knows I have the wrong socks on for walking, from twin windows, the sky so soft, gauzy rain falling. Gloss of wet ivy on the fat trunked ash, this is what I see. Under fingertips, these smoothed well-worn keys. All the words waiting to be unlocked. This is what I feel. Unlocked or unwrapped? The strongest magic is in the sharing. This t