Progress

Thursday: After so much rain, the clouds lay flat out, from corner to corner of a washed out sky. Tyres in swathes of water spray out wings either side of every car. We travel, a line of neckless swans, on the dark wet road, wondering where the summer is hiding. Everyone sighs. Back at the old house, clothes flopping in the tumble dryer, I heat a kettle on a blue gas flame till it whistles. Make hot chocolate, a mugful.

Friday: I am trying to set the router up. At this point I a person who does not care about weather, or chocolate. Boy is brave enough to help. Mr says he loves me. I say I will love everyone when the internet works. The instructions for accessing the connection are on an email. Which I can’t access. It is time to walk away from all things electrical, taking deep breaths. It’s only another little tribulation, on a sense of scale distorted by frustration.

Baby gleams, playing hide and seek under a duvet. She wears a toilet roll inner tube as a bracelet.

Rabbit lets himself be caught: at the new house he is primped, put on a lead, taken for a garden stroll. He sits in his new hutch, acclimatising, chewing hay.

After coffee with friends, come home. Mr hands me a glass of wine.

Dog sighs in her sleep. We went running this morning; she jumped into a hedge when a car drove close, with such a lurch the poo bag split. I performed a lovely sprint finish, undermined by the bad splats on my t-shirt. It was a blue print for the day: bad splats, turned out funny. Which I will share with everyone when the internet works. Sigh. More wine please.

Saturday: Forget all technology except a tennis ball, rubber boots and a waterproof coat. The coat is tied around my hips, vivid red and flouncy. Dog and I launch into the old Rosehill fields for a secluded walk. Only the thistle dragons watch us; wide open eyes on hydra heads. A buzzard in early flight cuts so close it steals the breath I was about to put in my lungs.

I pick up Cat and pop her into a travel case; deceptively easy; put it in the back of the car. Dog sits importantly on a seat. We drive slowly. Cat escapes swiftly, clings to the back seat miaowing. Glancing in the mirror I catch her tumbling nearly onto Dog’s lap; there is an awkward moment of tolerance before she climbs back. All the animals now live under the new roof, this is progress.

Sunday: Boy reports the internet has nearly worked today, though coverage has not settled. He is lying in bed chain-reading, spying occasionally on cows. ‘I look up,’ he says, ‘and sometimes they surprise me, they’re so close.’ Visions of cows on ladders knocking on his window are rather delightful. I am so relaxed I could be described as flollopy, if such a word existed. My car, which is turfed on one side after the grass is mowed, transports pots and pots of flowers and herbs and one fruit tree from old house to new. Most of my day happens outside, winds down to being sat here at the clothed table, watching the fat trunked ash tree seep to deep shadow.