Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

We were waiting for a storm, it was so hot.  No one had patience for waiting.  We knew the correct way to break a heatwave - one needs a storm, preferably heavy. We were luring the cloud, the wind, the rain, like this: Stand, hold the heat in your baked head, feel it drum. Feel it slide into your eyes, down each limb till you are slick with it. Till you are salt-squinty, agitated, percussional storm bait. The storm will sense you. It is drawn to heat, to throb, to windows open, to sighs and brow wiping and dogs flopped in shade. It had seemed to be working: a tongue of mist sneaked out from the sea. It took the salt, the desperation. Night came and the windows stayed open for the bliss of cooling down. As the curtains bellied out, we dropped to sleep. The storm had broken elsewhere. We watched the sky anyway, in the morning, holding cold brewed coffee, feeling rested. And I found myself thinking about the deer again; sad, profound. Too sad, perhaps, yet i

Dear Friends, Today I tidied the unfathomable shed. Under rusting shelves a bag was malingering, clinking, but in a way that seems more like muttering, as I dragged it out. Contents: six forgotten bottles of six year old homemade cider. It would be vinegar by now, useful for a weed suppressant or wood preserver.  Taking the precaution of being outside - having summoned Mr also, should I be in need of first aid - grimacing for glass splinters, the first bottle catch was flipped - and out burst foam that smelled of cider, good dry cider. I dipped a finger, then a tongue - good dry cider it was! So we took a glass each. Shortly after this I fell asleep in my hammock, later to be woken by a heavy bee resting on my cheek. I went to look at the shed, and the bottles, now lined in the fridge to tame down the fizz, and none of it was a dream. There were many more jobs to do, of course, and many of them done. On hanging up the washing I found a slug in a trouser pocket (they come out