Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

There is a sharp-toothed wind outside my house, calling. The noise drags through me like a spoon stirring curdled milk. Hedgerow berries are turned to moulded knots. Winter's entourage is waking. It will soon be Halloween… I think this year's story is ready. Not perfected, and full of risk. Not as stomach turning as it was, perhaps the story line is then exposed as rather banal. I care not. The risk is the point. One must bring the fight to the comfort zone. On the 31st, you can read and decide. Most of my attention is taken up with finishing The Novel (this is how I think of it now, though the next one will assume the same title, and the one after that, it does not signify a solo thing, it's a misuse of the definite article for psychological purpose.) I don't like to talk about The Novel. If you are talking about writing you are not writing. Why aren't you writing? I don't like to write about myself- too much self reflection is a hobbler. When

'Are you bonkers, little one?' 'No: I'm Daddy's pumpkin!' Breakfast is served on an upturned box. One must sit sideways in a decommissioned car seat. It's not meant to be comfortable, nor complacent. It was funny but then we saw a cat. Everyone must regard the cat. The shop sells only elephants and giraffes. Not socks. If you ask for socks you will be treated as suspicious. Once upon a time, a monkey. And a sheep and cows are my cows, big cows. The monkey is paintin. Is paint, yes? Please keep up with this narrative or eyes will roll, proving your idiocy. Obedience costs one banana. Wellington boots can be put on and kicked off repeatedly. At some point they will put themselves on the correct feet. When it is time to chase a butterfly, it that time and no other. Is there any poo? Let's find a poo.

Harvest machines squeeze the lanes, drag the cut maize to store. Maize grows fast and feral, it must be chopped fast, it is the kind of crop that might make a run for it. It should be quiet then, down by the river, the field there is ploughed neat, lies waiting. Butterflies: scraps of bombazine caught on thorny stems. Brown earth, bared, corduroyed. Sky flows blue. In the hedge greens are vivid pips: the purplish sloes, the red hips. Beyond, below, the river, the bigger river has eaten up all the rain. Something slaps the water surface, unseen, unexplained. At the edge, where Dog's swim sets a Mallard drake to wing, one bright thing, turquoise shining, faceted, flies panoramic. Gorged eyes follow the field edge, the fatted twilled grass, the splay pattern seed tops. They find a spider, tucked in, patiently waiting to tuck in. It sits perfectly still for a photograph. Brown deer, paused, cashmere. White bobs of buttock flee against the hedged green: leaves

Rain falls all over the park. Sensibly booted feet walk the circumference of the old firs, scenting earthy pine. Across the grass roll big tractor wheels, the grass is kept short all year. On the green the yellow-brown patched leaves show bright. By the afternoon clouds are blown through, the sun reaches warm, a touch of summer: as though it says to us, do not forget me, I do not forget you. Daylight darkles. One star is up, is told a wish. Three quarters of a moon crowns silver white, from the belly of night. Backlit clouds hold out, soft as blankets. Somewhere underneath a car pulls to the road edge. The driver leans down to find what is tapping her boot heel. Finds one child's sock and one lost Buddha figurine.

Rain in grey this morning. Steam and dark coffee part ways as they leave the flask. The road is clear, the car steady. Here I am holding the hot cup, sat up, under the rain that falls like a coverlet. Is there such a thing as a car lie-in? Should have worn pyjamas. Have I got my suit, my belt, my licence book, my training fee, my foot support, my water bottle? Yes. Will I check again in five minutes? Yes. In my suit, belt tied, fee paid, book stamped, foot supported, in the hall. Revved! 200 bodies or more in here, all power and no breathable air. Sweat humidity 100%. Legs work. Arms work. Core muscles get tenacious. If the brain works no time to think of it. Put ideas in a thought-locker. Drink from the sidelined water bottle. In the body's heat it feels cold. To the changing rooms, before sweat cools to fabric glue. Rain in grey this afternoon. Steam and dark coffee part ways as they leave the flask. The road is busy, stomachs growl at it. A supe

There was no one there, I thought. The shop walls were lined with wonderworks and an island of efficacious products occupied the central floor space. Customers could walk between the shelves in a circular route, dazzled by abundance. There would be something worthwhile and thirst quenching in this place. I stepped in, beginning my curious study on the right hand aisle. I knew there would be staff, of course, imagined that something of import had to be fetched or a kettle to be switched for boiling up water, leaving the counter empty for a short while. Meanwhile, there was no one there but me, I thought. Too abruptly and too close a face appeared and asked: 'Can I help you?' Were my nerves not steely I may have shrieked. I was reading shampoo ingredients, though this was not the main purpose of my visit. I put the bottle back on the shelf unashamed. I was being distracted because I was paying attention to my immediate world. Great art and happiness can stem from tha

Trophies won at competition displayed here- not for curing the common cold :-)  The pasta machine is snowed under flour, it's cold outside, my wine glass is full of red. Remnants of washing up hang around the sink and there's still a dosh of espresso in my pink metallic flask. All day I clutched a tissue and rubbed a leaky nose till it was sore and dry. (It was my nose: I should make that clear.) I stayed in and typed and wore through some elbow skin. (One day I will have an ergonomic desk.) Enthusiasm for movement is extinct but there is espresso. Light the caffeine and stand well back! After an hour my class has a glow warm: enough to cure my cold. Thank you to all my lovely students!

They climb down the lea of the hill. No one walks here but us. Above is a pitch of wind, unearthly. Water pours. If a mist drops, can I navigate? Keep the sound of the water to your right. Out of the crooked gorse they walk, to a clear crossing, shallow, over flat stones. 'I find it!' Little Granddaughter says. On the other side of the river she tires and takes a shoulder ride. Crow-birds hop. Sheep poo is pointed out, and the flights of linnets from a circling Dog. They are babies, she tells Nam-ma, whispers; 'tiny-baby-birds' regards their flight with indulgent pride. Not too cold for ice cream yet!

A zirconium string : the Plymouth road clusters with headlights, lures the quiet passenger up from wordless thoughts. Sparkle is created here, of a sort that will not rival any star: a mundane piece of loveliness: shine in a domestic setting. In the cars whole other lives drive by houselights of more lives. Something about that passing, that unknowingly shared point of time and space: the emotive commonplace in all lives. Up the Tavistock hill they drive, looking behind them at the axled bling of carnival rides, hear the faint squeals from Goose Fair.

We have been running free in the woods again, Dog and I, following knots of pathway. Around us trees bend and snake in deliberate shapes, brambles set sinuous ankle traps, fallen logs are my balance beams. Dog is puff and leaf-smacking wag: when she is gone on her chases I hear leaves break stem and land. Spiders throw galleon lines: they love to play Pirates. It doesn't have to make exact sense, it is what you want it to be; so we run and we are as we wish.  If there is a means to break this spell I will never seek it.

Dog and me walk in dawn mist. Sails and lines web the trees: mesmerize. On the shadowed path I freeze: there is sound behind us, unrecognized. A slow turn shows nothing unexpected: the river is higher: the river catches the bank. A thump of water is the cause! Enlightened, press on: note new points of swirl, the aerial spun silks. As the daylight begins its drop, Dog and me walk in damp field grass; gleaming and fat bladed it is. Feather-scatter marks a kill site: one pale pigeon body rests in the swell of green fronds. Autumn is not all dropped leaf.

Saturday is an early start. Before the sun rises from shapes in mist there is bacon, beans, egg and toast. I forgot my sunglasses, have to squint across Devon to the palm trees of Paignton, until I am in the hall that echoes with anxieties and gathered friends. Today I wear my yellow shirt: it means I am here to shoot troubles, shush nerves, mop stuff up. Today I have a solo small boy to usher, and one lost, and three wrong divisions in two adjacent rings. I have some permissions for photography to liase, one post-fight cry, one pre-fight potential sickness. Where am I queries go uncounted. Two please don't let me miss my fight but I need the loo dilemmas, one sorry kids you missed your call. One big yell for a medic to the men's tag team event. One bout of fielding medical questions to a crowd of puzzled children. A dislocated knee, I tell them, rarely fatal, often painful. Yes, to hospital, I tell them, he can have an anesthetic then while the patella is repositioned

At the night window one brown moth is drawn through the rain. It has no concept of glass, only an obsession for a naked bulb. In pity for this scurry, the blind is lowered. Instead of night there is black silk. Inside the night window, under the bared electric, one writer sits and stares at a screen, listening for the sound of moth wings.

Little Granddaughter tells Nam-ma that whistling is not possible. Nam-ma observes the weather, she says: 'We should go to the beach and get wet and take dry clothes and eat…' 'Ice cream! Look Nam-ma!' But Nam-ma has to keep her attention on the road so they don't crash. Little Granddaughter goes careful down the steps in a pour of rain. 'Come on Fats,' she calls to the beagle. He lumbers first then limbers up, has some moments: puppyish. Dog flies off: a boomerang hound, round and back again. They walk over snaky wild rivers, wade the Widemouth keys, the miniature mountains of low tide rocks. Grandad has the wrong boots for braving the waves: Nam-ma misjudges both depth and speed. Everyone has wet socks. 'Ice cream?' Little Granddaughter remembers. On the way back she proves herself quite wrong: sallies forth a passable whistle.

When it rains if you are tired if you are lucky enough you will be sat comfortably by a window have an uncluttered view: all those little drops will stitch together make a covering sentimental yielding fragranced autumn's rain has a spice a fallen leaf musk: you will breathe it hear the rustle of it let your eyes close.

The porch is walled in coats and boots. Dry mud drifts into corners. Paint flakes off in the bathroom's dampest points. New paint is bought, the tin is under the hand towel pile. Someone has written algebraic formulas on the mirror. The kitchen is ridiculous but it works: as long as we resign ourselves to be always shifting five-gallon tubs of blipping wine. The cupboards are lined with jam. The rumtopf crock is rinsed of dust and filled: squats waiting for the winter dark on the top of a cobwebby cupboard. In the front room two dogs blame each other for that smell. Things gather in boxes waiting for inspiration, for the extra push. Up the pleasantly precarious stairs some sweeping is due. Boy makes a strike against chaos, reports to have found some floor space. His door is shut, he shuffles out, sidles the findings: covert cleaning. In the office the walls are closing in, in lines of shelves. Two lap top screens are shining, twenty fingers are typing, in betwe

Oak Dragon is up to his neck! Rain, the dour forecast tells. A frown at the sky gives hints of otherwise: an even tone to the humid grey, no rain lumps thickening. This and a stirring wind encourage washing to the line, where it swells to corpulence, seems contented. The dogs bark at a grocery van; are reprimanded; slouch and sulk in their beds. All of us are late to bed and early up and not the better for it. There can be no sympathy for this, no surprise: do the same thing, expect different results? Confess to idiocy and pull on boots. A little humility and lots of fresh air. We are but made of human stuff. The rayburn is lit, the coffee strong. The dogs cheer up. Down to the river we go, Mr, Dog, Fat Beagle and me and a tub for berries, to follow the river-fed hedge and see how the water is rising and pick as we find: Cadmium-red rowans: poisonous till cooked please note! Deep-red haws: hanging clear of thorns- Blackberries and elders, both squish t

Aurum drifts from an avenue of beech: we scuff up fibrous coinage, walking the riverbank path. Two hounds bound into the clear brook and out, sniff stumped trees, scrabble claws on flood-smoothed granite. It's good magic at Golitha Falls. We breathe it: the scent of clear river, green fern, tree bark, wet rock, fresh leaf fall. Otters live here: we will not see them, we know, we must imagine it: Dog and Fat Beagle make too much splash. We love the road signs seen on approach: Caution Otters crossing. Tree roots bump the path, mossed green: can be mistaken with delighting ease; serpents; dragon tails; giants' fingers: emerging like stories, irrepressible, earth-nourished. I think of Midas: how wrong he was, turning everything to gold with indiscriminate touch. Autumn is the wiser alchemist, truly rich. Two hounds bound: scatter fulvous treasures. Before home, coffee appears in a shining flask cap.

In between the word-blurs there are moments where I am surprised to find myself not typing or holding a biro or stooped over an open notebook. And now, while I am typing, I am thinking of them. There was Little Granddaughter sat on the edge of the moor, bathed in ice cream, legs wetted from adventures in the leat. She has a new game: one of us says 'Wait a minute…' and taps a finger against lips in thoughtful pose. She sprawls limp in laughter. There was the river raid made by me and Dog, across the Tamar to Devon to scrump a few blackberries. They were all to seed, so we came back to our own bursting hedges. There was that hungry stare into the fridge, the reassurance of congested shelves. I made a jam sandwich, brewed fresh coffee. There was the oddity tonight of arriving home to find lights flickering: a mystery solved by the discovery of a TV remote under a Fat Beagle. In short, back to the word-blur I may go: we are laughing, walking, eati