Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

At midnight still butter pools in its dish. Dog rouses for a drink, pads back towards her bed, lies on the floor, sighs defeat. Ice chinks in nettle beer. The clouds have swallowed a full moon, and nothing cools in digestion. We lie like butter in our salt puddles, dream of emerging, evolved. For now, like Dog, we surrender. Pad, pad, slowly to our beds. Sand is welded to our soles. Close eyes, recall that push, that cooling incoming tide. Dog twitches in her sleep. Mr hums a snore. There’s no sleep here for me. Downstairs, where the windows are left open, a freed moon shines.

Where clouds are rift, blue shows. Rain holds. Air holds damp, birdsong, scents of earth. Palette of the day, silver-greys, green, dots of bright flower. A heart is prised open, this beauty stuffed in. Seeking remedy, not respite. Yesterday was sun and rain. Foxgloves, bolt upright, held their colour. I stole a rose to make tea; first to breathe the steam, then to sip. I had coffee, rich and deep. I had banana tea, sweet and cheerful. This morning the sky is variant silver. Coffee brews. Wild strawberry pancakes on the hob; one gets burnt when Dog gives chase to a cat and must be herself chased back inside perimeters. Dog feels sorry for herself, confined. We pretend stern. Petal frail, she sends apologies: I can’t do anything, she says. But you’ve done it all, we say, it’s our turn now and that’s how it comes to balance. Granma Grace smiles. I like her without the dentures, somehow, it represents her being her, no matter what is reduced; that kind spirit being irr

Four shifts at my new job completed. That’s 96 hours, I am surprised to calculate. Twice as many as planned but there’s a staffing crisis, and therefore an opportunity to redress our finances. I have a list of things we should buy - we aren’t up to making our own power tools just yet, for example. Mr has been minding the garden. I come back to it delighted. Beans grow, cauliflowers fight slugs, nasturtiums flow: stories, progress, magic. Air shimmers, heavy with birdsong, with imminent rain. I take up a spade to clear the edge of the compost bins. Bindweed and nettles encroach, they hardly need compost to boost growth rates. It is glorious to be outside. Tenderly, pull grasses back from the old cat’s grave, which lies just behind the footings of our composting space. Tiny pink stems in my hand - as though a new cat is growing - one feels a kind of awe, otherworldly, and laughing at the thought, simultaneously. The last roots are scraped back as rain falls. Bird no

Warm and dry the wind blows.  Wake up with bedcovers kicked to the floor. It’s warm but we’re unpractised, we’re too hot. Dog stretches out like she’s trying to evaporate.   Our plan is - work in the garden till sweat stings our eyes, then head to the beach for a swim.  Have we swum in the sea this year yet? It seems not!  (I have barely blogged this year too - it is the year of the hard editing, of print and production!) Search through tired fuzz, all we remember is hail, the strike of hail, and a rainbow. Whilst thinking, Mr cooks breakfast.  I discover misdoings of mice in the polytunnel. Some of the sweetcorn will survive, if I guard it.  The path we dug is mulched, the willow arch sprouts over it, pretty sprigs, tenacious wood.  Fruit trees flower, fed on compost tea. Beans newly planted at the base of bamboo arches are wind thrashed, happy.  Rows of onion leaf tassel twirl.  Breakfast is ready. We eat at the old pallet picnic table, laughing, minding the

Knots in my shoulders, spots before my eyes, I know not day from night, I cradle my coffee with obligated love.  Oh my gods, do look at this house! There's a family in here somewhere... After the feverish edits, I have pushed the publish button, I am done with it! Except for that last convalescent push, where you need to inform people that you have published a book, and wonder if they would care to part with money in order to read it.  Least favourite bit, the sales pitch, which is either because I am monstrous enough to believe that readers should all ready be queuing up, or because it feels like begging; either way, pride is the obstacle.  I will go outside now, get some gardening done, reflect on nurturing seeds. Here are some links for buying paperbacks - ebook edits are to be resumed when dark falls and coffee supplies are in... UK:  Adventures In Time And Weather USA: Adventures In Time And Weather

Widemouth North, a rainbow before the hail struck. Dartmoor, with snow, ponies, and Mr, before the sun melted all the cloud away. As this year began we were not entirely baffled to discover it had not brought a great change of fortune. We are metaphorical oligarchs still, with our big family, access to coasts and moorland with moody skies, and reasonably waterproof footwear. It's merely a matter of keeping ourselves housed that causes the trouble. So I had been filling in applications for supplementary employment. So far, no interviews pending. This is either bad fortune, or perfectly fortuitous. I don’t have to be on this edge to write, but it has a motivational role. Two books in edits, one on a slow journey, one a brisk paced unexpected arrival; one more in serious development, several being lured into existence. One children’s book part illustrated, several more of those roughly worded.  Today I have been engrossed in the beauty of the seasons, up till now, w

The trip out had been put on hold, while the storm was belting. The sky was getting darker. It seems that nothing much will get done. Granma is in the kitchen, filling up the kettle. Grandad is looking for his phone/glasses/keys/other item: he’s on a rolling programme of searching. All four grandchildren gather in the next room, out of sight, well in sound. Grandchild 3 says, with musical clarity, ‘You get on the naughty step RIGHT NOW!’ Grandchild 1 says, with a sense of subterfuge, ’You see, that’s why I don’t like her!’ Grandchild 4 (most likely recipient of the command) simply growls. Grandchild 2 says ‘What the?!’ (She implies an expletive with a comic shrug.) Grandchild 3 appears in the kitchen, dressed in the snuggle blanket. It trails behind her, majestic and soft. ‘I’m Elsa,’ she informs. ‘Let the storm rage oooonnnnn!’ Grandchild 4 appears, drawn to stand on the trail of the blanket. ‘Lie down,’ Granma instructs, picturing a head injury.