Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Wednesday 25 September 2019 Not everything gets written down - sometimes I think I’ll have a Virginia Woolf day and scribe the way thoughts wash around here. Sometimes I think I will report on all factual happenings and it would be no less absurd. Stuff about river weed, rum shots, lost shoes and breast milk: that was Saturday night, although I, blamelessly babysitting, was introduced to these circumstances early on Sunday morning. Sunday, sans sleep: scraping strength from somewhere to view my daughter’s next home, a largish cottage with a spread of neglected garden perfect for wild children and rum-weary adults. Monday: it is the Equinox. I am at work. Co-worker, client and me sit in the car, on Falmouth’s sea-front, letting the wind rock us, listening to the rain. Meanwhile, most other days, Mr and I clump around bogland, farmland, overpriced land, looking for our land. Yesterday the common reeds at an edge of woods shook themselves into a young roe deer. This patch would d

Haha! Wednesday 11th September 2019 Dog is curled by the airer where Granma Grace’s cloths and clothes are drying. Granma is gone to bed although it is not yet 7pm, having felt unwell, and afraid of becoming too unwell to get to her bed. I would say not to worry, I can carry you there, but she would hate to be a bother to anyone and would not wish to be carried for my sake and might start not getting up at all for the fear of that. There was a swan asleep in the garden - Derek, a regular guest - he has heaved himself away towards the river. Two petals have fallen from the rose in the vase. This afternoon I answered my mobile to a flow of toddlerese from Grandchild 7 who had absconded with her Daddy’s phone. ‘Hello my darling, what are you up to today?’ ‘Haha phone (+ gibberish)’ ‘Is Mummy there?’ ‘Er? Mep?’ (Meaning yes, but she doesn’t need to interfere.) My daughter’s voice: ‘Er, who are you phoning?’ Me: ‘Tell her it’s Granma.’ G7: ‘Nah.’ My daughter:

We nearly bought a patch of pine woodland, all prickly and sweet-smelling and blooming with potential but not quite right for practical purpose. Mr fell for the wetland meadow with the railway bridges, I for the land with a sea view, where the wind had buckled every tree. The woodland was a mutual crush. Dog loves every bit of land we find, her purpose being that much simpler. She has minimal need of shelter or planning permission or financial forecasting. Happy Dog. At the time of writing, happy Dog is sleeping, a light huff emitting from dreams. I am daydreaming of the life we nearly had or may have had in the weird woods, or anything other than this island of Rural Planning Law upon which I have marooned myself, and where I have become like a vintage cup, a thing of privilege with fine cracks under my glaze. I am writing this in hope of looking back and admiring. I am writing this because there was a time when we didn’t know how we would get here. Progress can

Wipers smudge road spray from the brow of the car. Even through the last of these storm clouds a staring light necessitates dark glasses. The windows are open, finding some freshness from the warm wet ground. We are on our way to Granma Grace, Dog and I, running late, catching up time. I had put my food bag in the foot-well at a poor angle; on arrival I find blood from Dog's food has spilt and everything needs rinsing out: my breakfast strawberries smell of butchery. We had caught up with time - Granma was sleeping, oblivious - so we took the parking pass to the car and embarked on our routine stroll by the river, walking on a shadow strewn path past the shallow water where the summer has sprung a mush of weed and iris leaves are striking up from soft mud. Where two gulls struggle for mastery of a pigeon corpse, in full view of the other pigeons; for which I criticise the victor and it flies off. Dog is at a nonchalant trot, smelling stories out of grass.  Late

It was the second time I had witnessed this death. A small bird, a hedge bird, skimming traffic, mistimed. The first time I heard the thunk, saw the bird spin. This second time I see the body, the size of my fist, hit the road's edge; I see the last breaths drawn in; breaths that seem bigger than the body.  A sadness strikes through me: for the creatures' fate, for the parallel with the plight of earth; a heavy hold of it. All day I cannot be comfortable, cannot find peace with it. Inaction seems like inertia, seems the wrong surrender. But what action is required: how to push this weight? How to use it? To make a pendulum and keep hope? I take my sun-heated brain to the river to think. It will be different for each of us, says brain, from the willow's shade, though maybe the crux is the same: along the waterway comes a decisive breeze, trailing its weather-fingers through leaves, stirring the river's surface where beady eyed fish pop up to

June is rolling by, awash, so everyone has forgotten that it's summer now.  This morning I peered into the vegetable plots, into the swaying minarets of onion buds, the splay of cabbage seed pods, not sure if the raspberries were the summer or the autumn kind.  Lovage flowers, tiny spray on tall stems; lavender in bud: summer. Wild strawberries and rose petals in the dehydrator and the windows open to better hear the thunder: summer. After an evening swim one must wrap up: always.  I am busy writing a story that seems to be running in rings about me, I am busy wild swimming to clear my head; working to pay the bills, reading up on rural planning law to wrestle reality from a dream. Picking the roses, the strawberries, the onion flowers. Tending the cabbage bed.  Standing still when I remember: see the swallows swoop by. Or floating, bobbing up toes, while each rain drop ripples out. Or that stop on the beach, while I am looking ridiculous with a towel on my

Thursday Waiting, yes. A particular kind of waiting like a string pulled. This week I have been looking after Granma Grace, we call it our Girlie Sleepover time. Grace holds this tautness most of the time, close to the bones of her. If I made representative art I would play with the idea of a pulled string twined with blooms - roses, tulips, cyclamen, all colours bold and pretty. This day the wait has a clear focus. We are waiting for baby news. Outside it rains heavy. We watch geese cross the lawn and leave again as though they had discovered something. We hear machinery whirr next door and workmen chattering. I have to recharge my phone twice from looking: no news. Friday Granma has stirred and gone back to sleep this morning, for rest calls her more and more. While she sleeps in her bed her foot tapping stops, while she sleeps in her chair it activates. I leave her have a lie in for this reason. Eighty-nine years to process, physical decline from age and stroke damage to acce