Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

A lone writer sits on a town bench, swipes wet sand from a foot with a stripy sock. Other foot, other sock. Further up the street on a similar seat, a man in a purple t-shirt is sleeping off a liquid lunch. Seagulls outside food outlets watch for opportunity. In the air: onions frying, sea-salt, a urine-dampness. The gulls pace. In shops hang t-shirts, rainbows of t-shirts, shining t-shirts, print-your-name-here t-shirts and hooded tops with hand pockets and holes for wires for headphones for your life sound track. Two boys stand outside a coffee shop, un-ironically play air guitar, sing to some music they love: it communicates something to them to provoke this signed response: a generational marker. One lone writer laces up boots and walks on to join friends. In the amusement arcade they post rapid coins into a cascade game, laughing and laughing till the campervan toy prize tips, on a tide of pushed pennies, down into the tray.

We woke up under the river mist. Fingers of sunlight wrung the damp air, squeezed the water back into the fat flow of the Tamar. Dog's tail was a fur propeller. We walked under our own steam in the bewildering bright day, down to the woods and up through the top path where we prepare to hack through fallen trees with Spiderman (Godson's alter ego) and his Mum. 'I'm not really Spiderman,' he says, eyeing the slain trunks that lie askance across the path, green with scales of moss and pine-spiked. 'I can't really climb that.' 'Have you tried, though? See here, how you can stand on this low branch?' I hold his weight until Mr leans over to take him. Mr says, 'Do you think you will fit under the next one?' Godson ponders. 'I don't know.' He ducks his head. He thinks again. He strikes the pose of a superhero edging on a high ledge and goes sideways through the arch of dank wood. 'Are you all right, lad?'

A relocated False Start Friday project: here a group of dedicated bloggers share either previously unrevealed or rejected writings; and there are few subjects that cause us as much trouble as LOVE or the frequently icky Romance . Here's how romance works in our house~ Mr: I bought you roses! From a petrol station (giggles.) Me: You know you can't eat the shop bought ones- they put spray on them! Mr: Perhaps you could put them in a vase? (Both laugh hilariously.) It has a sort of Theatre Of The Absurd vibe to it. Here is a poem, untitled, written once upon a time before Mr. I like it a great deal but it only existed before now as biro lines in an old notebook. It deserves better. As a love poem, it's unorthodox. It's more about freedom from the tyranny of love. This is not the girl Whose song you sing Not the one you think of Not the one you love She's the one who walks alone Who sings where no one ever hears And

A disappointment with the cornflakes is soon forgot. Godson loves marmite and butter toast. He also loves Dog, who benefits from a slyly dropped crust. We make plans to view some cows (not many of those wander through his city life) and go off the path adventuring in the woods. He has a sonic screwdriver and I have some pruning shears. For now though I drive my houseguests into the wet slap of a small February town, leave them to continue the rounds of visits and I'll get them back all dizzy and in need of a rest tomorrow. All the spare bedding is persuaded back into the airing cupboard, a tangled solid mess that makes me feel like I've just hidden a body. There's a suitcase in my front room, a gauzy cerise bow wrapped at the handle to make it easy to locate from a train's luggage stackpoints. Several times this morning I look up from typing and smile at it. And then work time appears on the clock: the day has been swallowed up as crafty and swift as Dog

Out come the frying pans. Dog must have her lead on to go next door for eggs, lest she succumb to cat chasing. A telephone call is made to fetch milk. There are two kinds of flour in the cupboard. I have vinegar smeared books propped in sun traps. A sense of responsibility has prompted a salvage attempt. Maybe the picture books could be scanned. Here's Cinderella and her rescue complex. It's not the story that enamours, after all: it is the pictures. The first dress is pale pink silk: prettier than anything I had ever seen (circa 1975.) The second dress is pale blue satin: the most sophisticated thing: a girl, looking beautiful and feminine: gathered net in a masculine colour. The third dress is silver and gold lace. There could be nothing more glamorous. Or there could: all ready I had seen such wonder and it had drawn out the idea that the world stretches further than you know. Meanwhile, distilled white vinegar diminishes mould spores and my houseguests need

At the foot of the fat-trunked ash one starling lies, open-chested dead. Emerald edges of the wing feathers catch the sun. In the branches above, the life of chatter persists. One starling barely expects to be missed, and it need not be a gloomy thought. A raw bravery it takes, for a person to be content with such; starlings are born to the mass, unquestionably, expendably part of something. I turn the still bird over, gently, into the grass where the ice twinkles: commend it to the earth. Ice under sun throws uncountable gems: Dog and I crunch through a fortune. I seek distraction. Back at the cottage, a combination of mould and bad housekeeping has made an unfortunate impression on my bookshelf in the little office room. The shelf of comfort books: some held since infancy. Up through the brook, over the wide curved field. The ice is melted here, except in the shadow of the old barn. Ice in shade has no light to refract. When the sun moves to find them, each crystal h

In the dark the stars Find no cover and must shine Between their light and my eyes, this Car window, smudged with old rain Here I sit Settled in the passenger seat Tipping espresso from the worn pink flask In the dark the trick is To stick your thumb just inside the cup: When the thumb is hot, stop pouring. Drink up, think of Rain smudge: what it could Represent.

To both satisfy and provoke curiosity, contained herein are the illustrations from my newest foray into print. Always I will tell people that I cannot draw or paint, only illustrate within a fairly limited scope. They look at my pictures- the pen and inks are the better examples of this- and curl lips. There's no hook for compliment cast intentionally. The bit missing from the statement is that I could: if I could be bothered to pursue and practice: sketch convincingly whatever is set before me. Why don't I practice? Because writing is the deep obsession. So, why not just write? While I draw, a wordless refreshment happens, a buoyancy, a reaffirmation. Each picture is a push past the comfort zone due to this lack of technical skill. It tests the nerve, the verve, the whole composure. If you find the right path, climb the mountain in flip-flops. At the summit, out the brilliant words fly.

Sketch of Mrs White: from 'Why Do We Have To Move.' (Today the pen etches secret prettiness: a wedding commission. Can't divulge yet!) The fire is lit. Piping, strong and pitch-black I drink up coffee: slap mustard and garlic all over my food. I am feeding a cold. I think it's dying. If needed, there are offers of sympathetic soup, to drown it. I am well enough, after yesterday's rest, to go out to work: encased in vest, shirt, over top, leggings, trousers, scarf, ski socks and baseball style boots. To my reflection I say, 'It's a look.' I get a look back, unconvinced, but warm. To my students I say, 'I smell of garlic, mustard and Vick's Vapour Rub. Any of you have difficulty breathing, it's either because of me, or you need to stand next to me, and I'll clear those airways.'

Rain bounces on the lean-to roof. Dog barks. One eye opens. Eventually I realise that it's my eye. Watch the tall fronded trees sigh in pale grey daylight. Tea is fetched to my bedside. Hours, somewhere, are ticking by. I can't hear them. I sleep. Hunger puts my feet on the stairs. Feed a cold, that's the old wisdom. Starve a fever. What does a cold like to eat? Fruit and yoghurt is what it gets. In the post today: my copy of the book I illustrated. Sense of achievement prompts further action. Pour coffee into brain. Write. Stories for papers about our students getting new belt levels- done. One essay required for request to take Second Dan grading- done. One chunk of novel- done. Three ticks earns a rest. Trees wave, eyes drop, dog woofs, rain drums.

A swift time spent outside, today. One chicken must be flurried from under the car, before the short drive to school. Boy takes his folder of photographs, goes to wave the usual laconic 'bye: one odd insect nestled in the passenger window frowns at the cold air, interrupts. We peer at it. It has that waiting to leap feel about it, as crickets do: is a bland khaki colour; sits still as a carving, big eyes boggle either side of its big head. 'It's going to be one be of those days,' I say. I forgot the banks open late, so after placing my car at a vaguely parked angle; the insect staring balefully after me; around the tiny cold town I walk. Too cold. Hot coffee will help. One window seat, one Americano. An extravagance, really. Civilised and privileged. I have money: it needs to be paid to the bank when the doors open. When the coffee cup is empty, I walk to the bank. When my purse is emptied, I walk back to the car. The insect is elsewhere. It could be

A fistful of storm in the sky tonight: splinters clouds into pieces. Such an air of drama: slams at my car: an exhilaration, a fright: I am caught up. And there, on the other side of the road, blue lights, flashing. Cars pulled to, hazard lights busy. A glimpse of torchlight, of shone cones in the far ditch. Let the news be good , I am thinking. A bruise and a lesson learnt. (How long now has my crashed friend been in hospital? He is bored, and grumpy, sat brooding over AutoTrader pictures of cars he isn't driving. Sometimes the second chance at life has a long painful labour.) Let the news be good , I repeat, while the wind frets. I tuck my car into the very top of the driveway. Indoors, Dog is sprawling on the sofa; Cat, happy in her basket.

Two types of snowdrops shiver in the slippery breeze: the shy droplets and the belled petals, striped with green. Icy, the breeze slides. Nipped fingers pull the wool of the warm scarf, cosy up fragile flesh. Cold mud, under the tread of the boots, plasticized: tracks that draw the eye to the gate of the field where the old barn squats. To the gate, and pull the squealing bolt and find here, white as winter flora, open sky: wide open sky.

Hedgetrees exude an energy of moving, even frozen in their dance: it goads a passerby to wander further. I've come this far, I could take a stroll in the woods. The top path is shining, licked by rain. All the fallen leaves make soft compost. Trees grip the abrupt edges with roots like dinosaur toes. Where the path is smothered by fallen timbers, there is a new path being worn beneath. Above is rotted limbs and some low badger tracks. I've never trod there, and it's so close. I've come this far. The bracken is black, frost smitten; the prone wood-flesh uncomfortably soft. Only the brambles are green and fresh and drag blood from unwary skin. Where the track runs out is too steep for standing, descent happens as a seated slide. Sometimes the moss here grows bigger than the trees. Three hours pass. Dog and I, mud flecked, drowsy, find the house again. We both seem surprised, to unearth this life outside the woods.

He came in looking pale: he had forgotten his belt: he wouldn't be able to grade without his belt. 'Wait here,' I tell his parents. I walk back into the hall and bow; an observation of courtesy that, at some point, we all perform inadvertently: at a supermarket, a school, a public toilet. 'Excuse me, Mr Paine…' I know. It's a good name. And the right person to ask. Instructor Paine points to a bag of spare belts, and there's the very colour I'm looking for. After a hug of much gratitude, after a courteous bow at the door, I return to the nervous scene, hand over the borrowed item. The drama is quickly resolved and there's nothing unusual about stricken faces just before a grading. I forgot about it. The hall looked brighter than usual, because of the new expensive floor. The new floor didn't have any marks on it to show students where to stand: we set them out in neat rows so our grading examiner can exercise proper scrutiny. T

Mild rain, the sort that barely damps. Muffled by a coat hood, walk the rough path to the woods. Wide pools of floodwater in the low fields, reflecting sky. Lively birds, fresh storm felled branches and an old shoulder bone is what we meet on the path. January is gone, like a bottle on a tide, holding a rolled up list of wishes. Have more fun, I asked of myself, be open to riches, and don't talk about, do it. Little decisions, they add up. Slide back the coat hood, under the trees, listen to the rain, symphonic, in the open-palm reach of the evergreens.

Not one raindrop slips from the sky. Sunshine cartwheels across the afternoon. One of those days where one makes plans but the lines blur: maybe because the sun is in your eyes, or because your neighbour from the end house has lost her handbag.  It wasn't in the back of the taxi; not the coal shed, not the greenhouse. It wasn't put away with the groceries in the cupboard or the fridge. In the bag is cash, bankcard, passport sized family photos: all the rectangle jigsaw pieces to connect up modern life. It is just reaching that point where the possibility of a handbag dematerialising is a consideration. Maybe, from the corner of the windowsill, behind the edge of the curtain, the bag is actually sniggering at this trick. 'I never leave it there,' my dear neighbour shakes her head, opens her arms. We hug each other, having shared kindness and relief. 'I'm always so careful with my bag!' She shakes her head again and laughs. 'Well, I can't s

The pink flask has seen prettier days. Sun through car windows bleaches out metallic finish. It is pink-ish, matt, mostly looks like a Caucasian prosthetic, but still we are fond of it. It keeps the coffee in warm proximity, here in the car café. The cup twists off. Silver shines under the pink, patched, a map: silver lands in a pink ocean. Espresso is the magma of my little cup planet. Rain distends the river again, overspills, over fields: the fat streams flow. Even the moon is swollen. We see the lower curve of it on the last stretch home. The flask in its former incarnation, bringing 9-5 coffee access

Thoughts on: how to be comfortable and not get stale. Which is not yet a problem: I'm actively pre empting. Like everything, it bubbles in the pot, sputters down to attitude. I am rich. I have always been rich, in experience, in appreciation. Actual material wealth seems tacky by comparison. Just enough to get by keeps you sparkling. Think: what can getting by include? A house, some land, a campervan? What I would say to someone else: Yes. Because it all fits in the pot of thoughts and it sputters just the same. What I remind myself: Yes. Because you hold a link between want and invention and yet once you held a cigarette that gave you powers of calm, remember, and when the very last one was stubbed out, idiot, the calm was stood just as quiet and lovely. If you are good inside you are good in any tax bracket. Will it hurt anyone if I rake up a heap of gold? No. Because it all fits in the pot of thoughts.

Up the flue the brush is pushed. Matt black soot absorbs light: only in specks, for light is not easily consumed. Lit, the fire hacks thick smoke. The soot still bothers it, still catches in the throat of the house. Outside, gluts of rain slick the roads, bog the fields. A brash wind bullies tall trees. -How else to dry the washed clothes? Lit, the fire stays.