Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Frozen old snow-bones gather in the shade, slanted lumps in whites and greys. (Think of Mae West: I used to be Snow White - but I drifted.) Sun at midday reminds us of heat.  The night sky is brittle, clear, the stars can be seen here, where the dark is let be. Mornings bloom frost, and also flowers, tender flowers reviving. Bees wake. They fly like they have winter aches, holding out legs in the noon warmth. Down at the beach there is snow hiding under sand, and cliff icicles, and melt water flowing, tugging at our boots, tumbling, all the way to the low tide edge.

‘In like a lion, out like a lamb’ is the weather saying for March, the roar of the lion being usually equated with storms. We have snow. Kittenish at first, growing pouncier and slicier, as the roads get icier. Red weather warnings flagged all over, venues shut, shops shut, schools shut. Here, as the wind chill gets dangerous, we layer up, we take a walk - a sensible, across some fields amble, not a survival route. We are hoping that a walk out will be brisk and keep our circulation functional. With both fires lit, the house is not warm. The bathroom is like outdoors, less the wind chill, plus a strong draft. I always claim to like the outdoor nature of our bathroom, it keeps you connected to the seasons, to the weather. I do like that - yet also wary of being frozen to the toilet seat. Snow flurries, evenly spaced, pleasing to the eye, all the air filled with this pretty dance. Down the lane we make first footprints. Dog looks grubby in the pristine drift. T

6am. Grandchild 3 stirs me from disturbed sleep - fleeing snores and soothing a toddler and a jumbled dream about my dog trying to wake up because she wants a coffee - with this sentence: ‘Granma, Dog’s done a poo in the kitchen, a really big one!’ Explains the dream. I say not to worry, I’ll clean it up - does Mummy keep cleaning things under the sink? Yes, says my observant side kick, and opens a drawer to fetch me a dust cloth. I do not use the duster. ‘I think there’s another bit here,’ G3 advises. ‘Might just be a bit of ordinary dirt,’ I say, but she’s stuck her toe in it, so, yes, it was poop. Toe and floor are disinfected. I make coffee, strong coffee. Dog lies in corner, affects an apologetic face. G3, unaffected, eats two breakfasts before her sister shouts to be fetched. She’s beaming in her cot, our Grandchild 5, framed in curls, holding up her arms. She’s also sticky. Too late, Granma! Straight to the shower, G5, never mind the glower. That

The Crow Road Iain Banks 1992 Mostly I'm behind the times on reading, because my books are most often purchased via the 50 pence box of our local secondhand bookstore. This one was loaned to me though. The nice thing about reading old books is if there was a fuss about it at the time, I will have forgotten, and read open minded. I had no idea this was any kind of detective novel when I began, it only occurred to me afterwards that there was a mystery to solve. I was caught up in the main character, and the fun of it. It is peppered with death, but warm hearted, and I loved the landscapes. The change in narrator from Prentice to his father, the moving time line, these made the reading a little fragmented but never disagreeable. 'It was the day my Grandmother exploded' is an engaging first sentence, and it held my attention throughout. I'm terrible at summing up plots so I stole the following from Wikipedia, for those who might need more info: 'Prentice

Read my To Do list - threw it on the fire.  Put on my red coat.  Found two dry oak leaves in a pocket -  catch a falling leaf, get a wish, I remembered, so I put them on the fire too, to let the wishes be free.  And walked back to where that tree stood bare, and further through the woods.  I found treasures, such as stacks and globs of fungus growing in turned up roots - that tree too I knew - before it fell, recalling how its roots were snaky and caught at our feet.  I found the drowned quarry blooming with algae like some suspect cauldron, stirred with weeping branches. Heard the wind above singing in a language I recognised but could not translate. Rested briefly at my favourite bench, a felled tree this one, left jutting over the river.  Strolled to where the river has a beach, storm strewn in flat stones; the wind chill too much for an unplanned swim by an un-furred creature.  At my feet, two heart shaped stones. Puddles have skins of ic

When you work as a carer and your shifts become palliative, the outcome is obvious. There’s a tumble of variables around how you feel about this: how your relationship was with this other human, were they suffering, and suchlike. There is a need to maintain professional distance, yet be truthful with yourself. There are endings. There are last meetings of friends and family. Hard to envision a life shared without tears, regrets, hilarious remembrances. The most complicated things can become simple - the simplest gesture, a kaleidoscope of references. You look back too and see, that trip out turned out to be the last. The last time the favourite top was worn, the last time we watched the favourite film. But that glance back is not sad, exactly. Because of your work, something wonderful happened. And kept happening. A luminosity. When death came - it was as though an artist had signed a fine portrait. How lucky we were, to be part of that. To witness so readily t

Under the blurred waxing of a blood moon, we are frowning, getting pestered with details, nothing so vital, just needing attention, but there’s not enough sleep for this nonsense. Metaphorically one cannot step without finding a splinter in a sole, a bee in one’s hair, and the phone ringing and the hob on fire, and there’s no coffee. There will be peace and quiet though, under that mess. I will find it.  Might need help. So I will meditate, I will take a guided meditation - I have a list and choose this one: Guidance From A Future Self. She will know about the mess and the peace. So I am walking barefoot without splinters or thistles in an imaginary, familiar place, smelling warm salt air, fresh cut grass, to a bench where Future Me sits. I can’t see her clearly, she’s hazy, I like her presence, it seems wise. How will I get to where you are? Is my question. I don’t exist, she says, I only exist depending on what you do. I can’t help, it’s on you. What?