Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

For all the stoic talk some stuck-in-traffic fidgets appear… Still, when a journey is sufficiently endured the arrival is a delectable moment. We race past the drum and sitar players to our room. One monk's habit and one Saxon warrior bodice are swiftly recovered from cases. There is bodice lacing to be done! In the lift down to reception are a nice Indian family heading to a wedding and an implausible Middle Ages duo off to banquet. 'Are you here for the wedding?' Aethelfrida The Invincible asks. 'Yes,' the nice lady says, faintly confused. 'Are you?' 'No,' Brother Mr smiles, though it crosses his mind to act surprised that they haven't joined in with the Medieval theme. Two courtly ladies, two monks, one early Tudor gent and a Saxon tribeswoman meet up in the reception area and order taxicabs to Coombe Abbey. 'Have you been before?' Our Cabby enquires. We have not. 'You'll love it,' he declares. He&#

Love how light paints a wet road. Love the smoky breath of cloud, the greys, the pumpkin colours. Driving, singing, fill the sky with my noise. Deep in a belly is a point of universal connection, is the origin of my noise. Love the gold leaves falling. On the windscreen, where the coffee steam bloomed is clearing. The flask cup rolls loose. Other lights make starbursts, across glass, across wet road.

Happy Halloween... On the other side of the glass daylight is filtered by thick mist. It could roll away to bright autumn or a slow drizzle. Either way, it looks good for business. Karl hears Louise drop her car keys on the side, knows the kids are delivered to school. Kettle noise will follow. He should have a shower, although it's tempting just to crawl into yesterday's clothes. He puts them in the wash basket. That way, no temptation: that way, no scowls from Louise. Her hours at the shop have been cut, she makes up for it with extra housework. The house looks lovely, he admits. He thinks of the day he announced their engagement: his mother, saying, 'You'll do well, you two, you're both workers.' Almost time to order another wreath for her grave. The years are getting faster. The mortgage is getting smaller. He heads for the shower. Ivy heaves the burger boxes in the cold store. There's something about the work that makes her happy. The lift

The gulls fly inland crying tales of the sea. They draw misty tears from towers of clouds. Dog on the sofa speaks in her sleep. Up shines the sun, up shows fingerprints on windowpanes, grandchild sized. Where those dishes came from; crumbed and sullied; is a mystery. Pale things stir soapy in the washing machine. Indoors, dark fabrics air on clotheshorses, on the backs of chairs. Work trousers hang from a bookshelf. Outdoors, sentimental rain falls on a pegged wetsuit.

After the night the storm opens its eye. The walk to the river is shorter than it was, the water much wider. It flows through the field where the crop grows a hand span high, floods out swathes of it. It curves out through the culvert that was barely damp mud last time it was noticed. Birds had left clear prints. Tree trunks hold in the overspill, the footprints will be gone. Upstream is impassable: we must guess that the island, the oak dragon, the beachy flowered banks are sunk. The sky is bruised. Deep bruised, blue black. Stars: I see stars, flicker, blink.

Here is some family gathered round a table. . Here is some drawing work by Granma and Little Grandson. They ink out dinosaurs enjoying a diet of cabbage that plays tuneful havoc with prehistoric digestive systems and may account for dinosaurs not hosting family dinners. There is some confusion over what a Triceratops looks like.   Next day Baby Girl takes the lead in a pocket-filling pram stroll. They find sour sloes, a sweet apple, blackberries of all kinds, bunches of grapes and one pair of hairdressing scissors in the generous hedges. Nice neighbours give them a cake. A whole iced chocolate and vanilla sponge on a plate. It was spare to requirements in their house. It sat on the worktop while a roast dinner was appreciated. But… back at Granma's house… Boy cut his hand in a kayak roll accident and there are bills to pay and the phone won't talk to the laptop. Pictures are laboriously emailed. Boy's hand is glued up and wrapped.

Family archive picture- my stepsister, now a mother of two lovely girls :-) Book held picture-side out, some of her hair plaited and some escaped, Little Granddaughter instructs Baby Cousin on the nocturnal habits of farm animals. 'A chicken goes to sleep. A cow goes to sleep. A pig… goes to sleep.' Baby Cousin, wide eyed, absorbs shapes, colours, direction of sound. Her hair is fair and fluffy and some months away from any kind of up-do. Her big sister's hair hangs waist long, darkish shades of blonde. There's a spider bite scar on her shin where a white-tail hid in her bedding once. A spooky Facebook tale is the culprit for last night's interrupted rest. … and he didn't pass it on and they found him in the sewer… We tell her it is nonsense, of course. She smiles, sheepish, in daylight, away from fleeting shadows. Yeah, she knew that.