Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Frequent thick clouds puff out the sun. The wind is brisk. But I am wearing a cardigan, being accustomed to a temperate climate. With a duvet and a rag rug, the old couch substitute is a passable sun bed. Down the lawn, daisy heads shake, as though I have just told them a very funny anecdote. Dark washing on the line billows: vampiric, cloak-like. Columbine florets in ballerina whirls. 'There is little in this world that stays still,' the wind says. The house door is open and it sweeps in, looking for things to blow through. My belly is full of good lunch. My eyes are full of wonder. Sometimes when I was thus occupied, as a daydreaming child, my father would be saying something and, vaguely aware of words, I would turn to look at him. 'In one ear and out the other,' he said, often amused, often annoyed. So I tilt my head now and let the wind blow, in through one ear, and out the other.

Yesterday's adventure was a sofa. A second hand green leather squashy comfortable three seater. Available now, for free, or it goes to the tip! Out comes the tape measure, the soft rack, the sense of intrepid determination. The sun is bright, the air is still. It's a solidly heavy piece of furniture. The car roof gets a scratch: no buckling. People are staring, smiling, pointing. We are a curiosity adding to the ambience of a summery day. At home, Mr takes the lead, proceeds into the house. I can only see his hands, wrapped around the pouffy green padding. A wiggle and a shove or two: we have a sofa. Just shy of twelve months, we have been sitting on a couch substitute. A mouldery old bed frame, pocked by woodworm; poisonous foam padding on splintering slats. We put it in the garden, make a sun bed of it for the last of its days. Boy comes home: it's his birthday, and he is delighted. We could go to the river with our picnic basket, but we don't, th

A day that crumbles through my hands, yet lands pleasingly. After the trek to the police station to report it missing, the lost wallet turns up, for example. I made it to the first hour of tournament training, rediscovered side kicks, skipped a shower because I forgot to bring spare clothes. A steel thermos lid-cup of coffee waits on the dashboard while I rig up the sat nav. Metal conducts heat, I am reminded. But there's a cloth to hand, to insulate my fingers after the first burn. Drove to meet Baby Girl, and she is the one who was only born yesterday. She pulls a face when I steal her from Grandad. Granmas used to smell of talc and palma violets, not sweat and muscle rub. Baby Girl has robust hiccups. All the time the sun shines. At home, eat the last of the fridge chilled brioche. Crumbs on a gold plate wait: I'll wash up tomorrow.

Tough on the outside... This morning Mr's phone will insist on bleeping. It bears news. I can't sleep on that news, and we have no bread. The bread maker is dragged out from under plastic baskets of brewing paraphernalia. The bread maker book opens to the page for brioche. Sugar. There's the left over chicken to simmer into stock for noodles. Spice. While the wait hovers, because that how waiting is, not quite landed: washing is hung on the line, dogs shuffle nosy in the morning grass, a warm breeze blows over open blooms. Coffee brews: strong, strong coffee. Buttery baked aromas drift from the open kitchen window. Most of the washing up is done and drips on the draining rack, upside down and clean. A notebook open to a blank page lies on a table of life in motion, on a tide of lists and receipts and a card bought for this occasion. There is a stamp for it in the back of a floral print purse. All things nice. The phone rings. 'A baby girl,' Mr

Slinking in the shallows of the far riverbank, this trespasser looks up under secret tree roots, sees there: white as porcelain, wide as dinner plates: flat fungus growing in neat stacks. Over the water, a vortex of midges. In the water, light gleams greenish clear or blurred in mud. Rocks, deviously slippery as we cross on foot, soothe to softness when we tread deeper to swim. Tiny fish hide: amazed, afraid fish. This river world is no safer than any other world. The water pours, it pulls and spools. In the soul of the swimmer, a sense of stillness settles. We laugh, walking home in wet shoes.

Yesterday: There was website development, there was the housework backlog: there was the sun: so shiny it was causing a distraction before anyone came to make me give in to it. Me and Little Granddaughter walked in the garden. Fat Beagle houseguest is bossed to join us, obliging even though she mispronounces his name. Owlfide sensibly rolls his fat back into the shade when the Nextdoor Chickens catch her eye. Heat makes her weary, eventually, so we lie on the sun lounger. She pokes a freckle on my arm. 'Hurt?' 'No, it's a freckle.' 'Feckle.' 'Yep.' 'Oh. Okay.' She nods, rests her head on my shoulder. I should be thinking about work but I'm thinking about holidays. Washing waves on the rotary line, makes noises of sails and flags. We lie on the sun chair, squint, let the blaze and company dictate. Today: All the little jobs stick together, jam up the day. All day I have one eye on the stupid clock.

The river is lower than I've ever seen it. A stretch of unexplored stone and tree root lands in my lap like free tickets. I'm gone before I've realized I'm going to go. I see tadpoles and shout about it. I see the river fall deep from the mud and stone shore. There's a world down there. I'm almost struck to stone by it, till the breeze and the shake of a wet dog break that spell. Sun light falls on a length of old chain. It takes my historical fancy. I pull myself up the bank of nettles under the barbed wire, declaring: 'a piece of the chain bridge,' before admitting: 'in my mind, at least.' It does have that look about it. Mr admires it and we leave it in situ, for it belongs there and some things need leaving be. There are more tadpoles in the stream. 'The ones in the river must have washed down,' Mr observes. 'They're thriving,' I decide. There's not a nettle sting on me. Under the trees we walk, and

I would have liked to tell my stepdaughter how beautiful she looked, in her wedding gown, no surface gloss beauty: the real glow. I think she knew, anyway: Little Grandson had run to the unfenced edge of the high church wall to wave at Mum in the wedding charabanc. And his shirt was untucked, so there were two Granma jobs to keep my mind from crying. People do cry at weddings, I know, but I might not be able to stop. This confident, quirky boy stands on a grave and smiles. Life prevails. Celebration prevails. Love is worth the risk of loss. Bunting aplenty at the marquee: handmade, yards and yards of candy prints, hours and hours of fine work. Cupcakes, homemade, iced and glittered, place names, all hand written. It all comes down to love. The groom stole the speech show. He floored us all: no showboating: only how he misses his father, how he loves his wife. He proposed to her in a gondola: he's that sort of chap. Every napkin holds a mascara blot. Little Gra

The shop's proprietor is amused and bemused. He has to confirm the request out loud. 'An inappropriate card for a funeral?' 'Yes. Not too inappropriate. Just not gloomy. Preferably a bit rude.' The Grim Reaper is passed over, in spite of being a cartoon. 'This one.' This one has a pastel pink background, minor profanity, a wryness and pathos to it. Mr is looking at cards for a new baby, cards for a wedding. It doesn't seem real, to buy a card for a death. I don't want something that's an expected formality. I want some thing to celebrate the odd bond between oddly glorious people. Ian 'Special' Rice escaped from the restrictions of disease, but he never escaped from life. Life he met head on, wailing in like a rookie fighter, like some kind of crazy clown. He learnt from each bout though, more than he let on. We always spoke to each other without restriction. I'm still learning from him. I'm pleased with th

A practical turn to my wedding outfit: I must find a cover up for the bruise on my arm. Off shopping then. Quickly. Time is of the essence, as they say.  On the slip road to the A30 a hearse is pulled up, hazard lights flashing. The coffin is draped in a cloth, bright clear red, under a circled wreath. How this contusion arrived, I don't recall, no matter how I frown. I drive: give up. There is a bruise: that is all that can be dredged. A white crop cardigan suffices, matches the white flip-flops, the pearly Alice band, the damaged beaded bag that I bargained for. It's a good bruise. Puzzles me, how I missed the cause of it. It's the shape of a heart. So, here I am, pulling odd faces in concentration, trying to take a picture of my heart-bruise. Either mystery or symbology makes it a perfect subject. 

This weather does not echo mood. It draws it out. Cloud clusters bring indecision: clouds in the mind. Unexpected sun coincides with proximity to beach: Dog and her shadow and her reflection hurtle over wet flats of sand: I am caught in trousers that don't roll up, so my hems are drenched. Contentment reigns, curves in the blue like Dog's old tennis ball. Later, the rain is so heavy it could flatten my car. The weight of it squeezes out tears. At home, comforting: the sound of the same rain on the lean-to roof. 

Little Granddaughter crawls under our covers. 'I love Nam-ma,' she says. Her christening dress lies on the floor, a sweet froth of lace. At the font she scooped up water and washed her mother. At the party she danced past her bedtime. (She also licked and returned several sausage rolls, but I've little sympathy, if you must eat all that pastry and processed meat.) At Granma's house she slept for twelve hours. After she is returned to her mother, and settled on a sofa looking at cards and presents: 'Oh, s'nice,' she waves goodbye without looking. Good Granmas understand: they are stoic by nature, and loving. 'Thank you Mum,' Girl says. She will make a fine Granma one day. There is this, and our next Grandbaby due in 8 days, and our next wedding in 5 days, and I need to get shoes, and something to make my hair so pretty. And then there is my beautiful friend, and my fatherless godson, that bereavement, how can that not be on my

Two days of almost quiet :-)  Lean at the window, this morning, eyes following the swallow's loop. At times it seems to halt mid-flight: an ink outline painted on sky. On the walk back from the river, midday, hedges are scoured. Wild strawberries, tight and green, reveal signs of ripening.  This afternoon, on the broad stretch of comforting sofa, settle with a mug of hot tea. The doors are open and everyone wanders by: busy with a barbeque, an impending wedding, calls of children, playful dogs. The men have tried on their suits. It is time to cook some meat. The women say: 'Men. Fire and beer and meat!' There are laughing children on the roof of the playhouse, a flick of flame in the fire pit. There is wine in my glass. On the drive home, one round of moon looms. Think of: silver paint on velvet card, mother of pearl, carried to term, third trimester. Lazy morning sun stretches out, having so much room in t

Why is the wind So Cold ? Summer's first month is Days Away . That's it! I say, at the Brink of Letting Misery Prevail . I am going to Imagine myself a Holiday! Everything I know of palm trees and warm sand is being packed into it. My suitcase is the one leaking ultraviolet, trailing leopard printed straps. The food is amazing: all spice and lime zing, the drinks bubble fresh. The sun is blurred in the heat hazy sky. I think it might have melted. It has melted. It is made of gold ice cream, it's what the Gods eat. In the evening, as the flavour of the sky turns to watermelon red, we dance, coffee brews on a beach fire, misery is nothing but a snickering twig. 

Wild solace grows in these hedgerows. I follow the stream as a whimsical path. The drainage is manmade, a plastic tunnel channeled from the field. Dug over in the shale are old bones, old teeth, turned from the earth when the tunnel was dropped in. In the stream too, a bright skeletal relic: shiny clean in shallow water. I can't imagine these trees as saplings but they must have grown, out of the earth where the bones all lie. 

Darkness defamiliarises , my notebook advises, in neat ink, circa 1993. It is a form of chaos, of exhilaration: everyone has a need to be uncontrolled if they seek to know themselves. We learn our capabilities in the dark. Or we give up control, shirk the responsibility, roll helpless at the whim of the moon. Thumb a few pages further: find a transcription. 'Conversations with the sea.' Think of a beach under a night sky; where I hear my thoughts most clearly. The neat ink reads: The spray was tall, lashing overhead. I'm back to see you, I said. I know, said the sea, which seemed to be laughing. There's no lesson for you today though. Just rest. How should I rest? Do you have nothing to teach me today? If a lesson happens, then so it does. Don't be impatient, you're on the right path. Does it have a name, this path? No, of course not. It hasn't been charted yet. I write some of this down now. You're in my book. I know.

I remember you before you were born, dear chap, when you were that stupendous swell in your mother's belly. I remember a while before that, when the doctors frowned and told your mother that she would be unlikely to have children. I remember how she said it was okay, she didn't want any children. Brave liar, she was. You were longed for, not expected. You took your time, too, coming out into the world: and then there you were, a tiny face peeping out of a blanket, wrapped up, safe, making all the fretting bearable. We watched you grow in pictures, heard you burble on the phone before you had mastered a word. There were visits, which you won't remember, being so young. Maybe you will remember our walk through the woods, where you thought you couldn't get over the spiky fat trunks of the fallen trees. So many obstacles in life, dear chap… After we had conquered the trees, we went to the river, threw sticks in the water, cheered every splash. You wer

The song goes: 'That's life, that's what the people say, riding high in April, shot down in May.' These lines are singing in my mind. Behind me, the sun has heat. There was mist, this morning, the sort that travels in upright tufts. Ghost mist. There was a between worlds feel to the morning. Little birds pelt and blast and sway on fragile branches. They sing with their beaks full. It is tropically noisy. Dew gems shine and evaporate. Fat clouds drift. Shadows of roof-nesting birds fly up and down the stone wall of the house. 

Sat on the doorstep, tucked out of the morning breeze, sun on my toes. Toast with butter melting is more like pudding than breakfast, and who wouldn't want pudding for breakfast? I did not want to leave my deeply sleepy bed, this is like a reward. Sat, legs lolling, in the lounger with sun on my face; cold coffee to hand, and a book. Washing moves on the rotary line. The lines sag with wet weight. Rain speckles on the page. Sat on the sofa, barefoot, with a layer of warm jumper, with the book. Each sentence gets re-read: the thunder is distracting. I have hot coffee and marshmallows in an earthenware pot. All so sweet, and bitter, with these words on Bronze age wonders and watching to see if the sky will split. Heart catches in throat: exactly how it feels: a gag of emotion from which inarticulate sound squeezes. At the roundabout, driving home, one glimpse of shocking red sunset. One carmine glass of wine waits on my writing desk.  

Hail strike on the driveway sends me back indoors to retrieve waterproofs. I mean to walk around the lanes but find myself at the gate to the woods. A few times the steep mud path slides me faster than expected; there is barbed wire suddenly underfoot, a rotten trunk thumps the ground after I reach to hold it. Overhead that bright green canopy sways, lets melt water pelt down my neck. Bluebells stand surprised by the invasion of ice chips. Churned up river runs mud-brown, is feverishly swollen. Sun warmth brings everything from its shivering. A woodpecker echoes. From the crumble of wall, I observe the detail of reflection in the quarry pool. The illusion is so perfect: I could jump in, climb those trees. In the heat of walking home I also stop, take off my jumper, stand for a moment, amazed.