Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Another joint blog adventure- if you want to see who else said what the list of participants is here . The premise is this: 'You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you ... from you. You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items you have sent yourself. What's in it?' Here's how I imagined it: Before dawn? Shadows outside, first forming. Sleep has gone, I don't know where. Coffee I can find. All the way from Machu Pichu, this fair-traded pack. Scissors are in the drawer, which

In the Atrium of iPads all the golden rectangles pulse with the life I seek for my old MacBook. I see it, don't hear it: wax dumps of each ear canal are thick with the blended oils of Earex. Arachis, almond, camphor. Smelling of mothballs then, I open my case on the problem desk. The grub of my screen, all the dirt of the faithful machine, it is hilarious in here. Even clean, the specs are laughable. I run a finger over the fault line that is held together by tape and a sticker from a Thornton's chocolate. The assistant in his saintly blue t seems genuinely, gently amused. I am too fond of my laptop to be embarrassed anyway. We try a new charger and Everything Lights Up. For a power lead, ouch, yes, that's pricey: but for a live machine and for the union of the internet, oh, yes, a pittance.

A roll of images from our walk, through woods, along the collapsing river bank, are the first thing I think of, presumably to block the possibility of everything else that might be lost to me. It might only be a loose connection or a sleepy battery that is not making the spark that wakes my laptop up. I have borrowed Boy's Inspiron, which is fine but unfamiliar. I am stumbling over keys that didn't even get a notice on my grubby aged Mac. Anyway, this short post is to let you know, if I seem to have disappeared, I have not. I am busy solution hunting and will be back.

Little Granddaughter stomps to each park shelter post, hits every one in turn with two sticks, previously collected from under the giant fir trees. 'Hahahaha! Dongdongdong!' She chants. 'Doggle, woff woff woff shtay.' A group of cold teenagers lean into the wind, listening for such sounds, out on a music project. They are barred from sharing any shelter by the pink and fiercely bobble-hatted priestess. She stands at the head of the snaking path, shouts 'No!' They shall not pass, but edge on, gloveless and shivering. Dog lies on the grass, exhausted from her chain of commands.

So much going on with work of various kinds, distraction is medicinal.  I have wandered through some old papers, found this poem and written a sort of postscript to it. A bit rushed, a bit distracted, but happy. 1992 Solo I cannot fall in love today It will only live in one house And I won't stop moving The day before I may have Stood at the gate, wishing Dearly to be let in But the air outside Was fresh and the view Needed exploring Tomorrow my boots may be All worn down My head spinning with sights Then I will choose my loveliest place Lay down with the flowers Who comes to me there can stay And a love that is real doesn't care At all for cement and fences It moves easy as grass under breezes. 2013 Duo Moon overhead Heavy with shine Follows a gravity A fidelity Pull and lustre We see it as we feel it We move with the lug Experienced Thr

Woke up, a whole ten and one half hours after the day had begun. One lazy bit of a busy Sunday. The big picture is in my head but the bits keep falling under the mind-sofa (represents an obstruction here, not comfort.) Mr says we shall go to the woods to find some refreshment of purpose and to fell trees with our bare hands because we are quite Super. On the way home I think about the old path we found and how deep it is pushed into the ground. Once upon a time the king of the badgers reached the massive age of one thousand years and it was time for him to travel out of his woodland kingdom. As he walked, his wiry buttocks dragged tracks, and these became our country roads. Because: an entirety of logical sense is not required to enrapture.

Mr and I were early for the wedding. This is unusual behaviour. I did forget to wear my wedding ring (more expected: it is often boxed, as I can't wear it for work. Sometimes causes hilarious misunderstandings, that I work evenings and must not wear a wedding band.) It snowed, a little flurry only. The bride and bridesmaids, even with the faux fur stoles, were bravely cold. It was easy to huddle us in for the big photo, seeking some communal heat. After the warming effects of a three course meal, sleepiness is inevitable. Little Finley half snoozes on his Auntie's lap: he's not been well lately. None of us were expecting him to vomit though. The bar staff handed over lukewarm soapy water and paper towels: luckily for them I am an adept sick handler. Then comes the disco and the dance floor covered in colours of light and twirling tinies. George does his first knee slide. Molly kicks her Uncle. Logan and Nathan stand on a windowsill shrieking at the wild rab