Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

I love this about history: the stories; oh , best of all the stories: from conqueror to waif: from tectonic shifts of geology to the hatching of a rare egg: the feeling of otherness that one can glean from trying to understand another time, another place; the awareness of basic human experiences like love and financial insecurity, the shock of mortality, the inspiration of courage shown. Only… if it were to gently rock to a stop... not a frozen in its tracks stop… perhaps a boat at a mooring on a fine weather day… The focus, then, would it fall on the oddities of nature? What if 2013 were most memorable for unusual cloud formation, for admirable sky colouration, for the best spider webs on record? Do think of it, for sometimes one has had enough of the debris, of the way that people can be scattered, hurt, abandoned, lost, misdirected, miss the point, forget that all this has happened before in different clothes and make up and the outcome was not happy, it never will be

Sunday Afternoon December sun turns the landscape silver nitrate: the day like an exposure for a scene: between river and quarry pool where the wall is crumbling. We came here when the wall was covered, unknown under earth and moss. We came here when the earth tumbled, the slate blocks shining, the tree roots, exposed. We came here when the water pushed through stones and through the dark roots, the fingers fumbling. Monday Morning White noise in the chimney hollow, tapping rain on window glass, strands of ivy shook loose, soft soot thuds. All the electric is strangled: torches found, candles lit, fire stoked, the fuse box investigated. The storm takes a pause, as though distracted. The lights cough back. No sign of settle in this weather system. The calendar is close to running out of pages. Miles and miles we walked this year. Today I will polish my boots.

Elmore Leonard advises against opening a book with the weather or wasting plot time describing objects or places. For conversion to film that is sterling advice, naturally, and there's no reason why a reader can't be an involved part of that snappily paced adventure on paper either. One is allowed some fun, one hopes. It's Christmas, so I'm out on a round of visits and meals and this afternoon have been paddling in the sea sipping port and brandy out of a hip flask, so I don't have a copy of the book I want to talk about with me and these words might have an uneven pace, a drift and giggle gait. Clouds drift, beautiful puffy ball gown clouds, the sky is a Wedgwood dome. We're at Bluebell Barns admiring the mackerel shoal sculpture. Later the solar light will catch them shimmering silver in make-believe waters. We are warm on the corner sofa with a clear view and strong coffee. Three dogs sleeping. I shall get back to the point now. The Years is the last b

Christmas is a time for messages, Queen Lily asserts, waving a glass of dry sherry, so here's mine: The pressure to conform is oppressive unless you ignore it, as is the pressure to react. The will to help, the ability to love, these are what makes you beautiful, what justifies your place in the world. Nothing you put on your face, in your wardrobe, in your bank account or display in your house or garage adds to you at all. But if you are a painted fancy rich curator in a big car I can still find something I do like about you: maybe you have a penchant for fun and a well stocked wine cellar? Every time a line is drawn between them and us the world stays divided. Learn by mistakes, lead by example and raise your glass, or your nice cup of tea, or wheatgrass shot or champagne flute; that's incidental, you probably realised, and let us toast the future of happiness, not just for Christmas but for always, at the heart of a healthy and truly wealthy world. Cheers!

In a lull of storm a stroll to the river to see how it spills: fast, capacious. The nouveau delta valley is dangerous and charming. Bright raw wood dots the dark undergrowth: trees fresh weather-felled. Stern faced cloud sails our way. Water tumbles through the quarry wall. Later, maybe, the wall will tumble down, dissipate, river swept. Meanwhile the pool is calm, reflecting a bloom of sun.

Exeter: Granma Grace laughs. Mr apes her instructions that this bag must go to those people, that bag to these people and the envelopes on no account opened before the event of Christmas Day. 'Or you will die,' I add, mock-sombre. Her eyes blue-glitter. 'Yes, that's right.' Mock-sombre right back. Little Granddaughter adds tomato sauce to her pasty platter, then cries, for reasons unknown. 'Well, if you talk to me I can help, okay?' Girl shrugs the drama aside. A glass of water brings some respite. Boy fetches biscuits. Exmouth: Mr and Little Grandson play rugby in the front room. Baby Boy is there, sleeping in a Moses basket. They play with a soft ball but just to be perfectly safe they shhh don't tell Mum . Launceston: Girl, Little Granddaughter, eyes of brown onyx; walking home, blowing kisses. Lawhitton: Boy looks at his list of cards to finish. Sighs. He helps unload, reload the car. Po

A walk on the safer side, today: no ponies lurking amidst twilit bracken and bones. Over the arcs of cut-crop fields clouds tower. They have storm left in them. A storm shortage is unlikely. Dog has a beauty day, first a whole body mud wrap then tea tree foam, cold rinse and an ear trim. A mild chill brews in my head and back indoors it is all about wrapping up. This jumper is bobbled from use: comfortable and flecked gold. Presents stack under the tinsel tree, labeled. This time last year, we review: Mr Craig gave us the beautiful shock, the surprise wedding! We were thinking of our friend who was touch and go after a car crash. Ian Rice was poorly, we were used to it, it was just a fact. Little Godson on the phone, telling us about snow and a kestrel that hit a pigeon. The pigeon survived. Two magpies, I saw, out walking: one for sorrow, two for joy… This year: Baby Girl joins her parents for anniversary celebrations, the young man who survived the crash