Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

This morning the sky is subdued, it droops over the moors, and rain fills the low gap between cloud and earth. Undeterred birds still sing. I sign for a parcel while the postman names the weather; ‘Unsettled.’  In the habit of revisiting books, seeking to turn out anything which has ceased to inspire; maybe I have outgrown it, or just absorbed it so much the original can carry its light to another shelf, I swoop a book as I pass through the front room; one I remember buying on another rainy day.  The colours drew me first; the words took me to the till with my rattling purse, tumbling pennies onto the counter. April ’93, I have written inside the cover.  Today also I seek colour; luminous, calm, luxurious colour. I think to scan the words. Instead I sit and read the whole book. Three quotes I pick out to share. Henri Matisse, son of a grain merchant, discovered his vocation by accident, given a gift of a paint set, whilst in convalescence from appendicitis. Pain...

This morning: I recall we have a shower, so I stand under it, foaming up shampoo and showery scrub things. There are three brewing bins to climb around, the floor is dank, and the room smells faintly of the long ago rat that died in the roof space.  Once the shower is cranked the water abundantly trickles out at a temperature somewhere above warm and below hot. Outside I sit with my paper, pens, coffee, sunglasses. My hair can dry in the sun. The arrival of Girl and Baby forms an impromptu picnic. Baby grubs in the mud, digging up some stones with my dinner fork. She has her first knee scuff. We try to keep a sunhat on her. This afternoon: Through the car window I observe the underside of the overhang of the garage roof, while Mr wanders in to the garage shop to pay for a bag of coal. The white plastic grooves above are ornate with darkly clogged web lines. In shades of dirty white, pockets of spider eggs inhabit the ninety degrees of angle between plastic a...

A sunny day, when I am required to be under a roof. Several sneaks outside, to plug myself into the summery buzz, admiring details in the cotton-tail clouds because I have my prescription sunglasses on. They aren’t quite so clever to take to the cinema but we sit close to the screen and 3D launches whizzy machines even closer. We love wearing our plastic glasses. I love peeking behind me and everyone is wearing the same glasses. Mr and Boy chomp chocolates and sweets. I am crunching up a bag of rocket and a punnet of cherry tomatoes. ‘It will catch on,’ I insist; they are not at all convinced about the cinema salad bar future. Flying robot suits; they prefer that future. Not mutually exclusive: just greatly varying in degrees of enthusiasm.  Dry sky and clear views all the drive home. Before the film, we sit at a pavement table with drinks; fizzy stuff for the lads, espresso for the lady. Polished pedicures swish past in fashionable sandals. It occurs to me that some of thes...

    A blogging award? For me? Teresa Cypher, thank you very much! I visit Teresa’s blog for a unique blend of science fiction and country life, always uplifting and educational. (Witches Jelly was one of my favourites.) http://dreamersloversandstarvoyagers.blogspot.co.uk In accordance with Kreativ blogger rules, accepting this award includes:  Firstly: Thanking the blogger who nominated me for the award and providing a link back to their blog. Done! Secondly: Listing 7 things about myself that the readers might find interesting. Easy, I thought, I am always doing ridiculous things… only to find rascally thoughts scattering and slippery… These are the things I grabbed hold of- 1. I have punched a seagull. 2. I married Mr in a disused slate mine. 3. Have recovered from a milk phobia. I still don’t like it, but the screaming has stopped. 4. Have seen a fox doing a bright purple poo. (They eat berries.) 5. Had to complain to my landlord more...

Boy, exploring ruins, expressing a spirit of irrepressibility Today it has been my fantastical whimsy to deliberately not notice any ordinary miracle moments at all. Dog and me walk the fields, and do throw ball stuff, bag up a poo. Ignore clouds. Even when Mr notes that they are formed over the moors ‘in lines, like the lines of a poem.’ He doesn’t know why I am not rushing to ogle. This is exactly the sort of thing I love to ogle. My parents drop by for cups of tea and a lesson in re-potting the wilty vine. Nearly get drawn into how beautiful the view is. The rolling panoramic sculpture of the moorland peaks… Quick, cast my eyes to the crumbling house. Think of my bank balance… Mr cooks bolognaise. There is hot water for the bath. There is espresso. I sit outside to start a new illustration, in the sun, and the clouds billow away like sails at a tall ship race.

Wednesday evening:   On the drive out, to Plymouth via Tavistock, fat mist rolls over the moor. Twists of bacchanalian gorse are waiting for the dark. The dark takes its time. On the drive back, to Launceston via Callington; the colours are concentrated, not consumed. The mist has lingered. The wet road reflects. Everything blends, like Monet has painted this evening for us. At the road edge, wistful leafage deepens slowly to silhouette. Night is here; tremulous trees breathe night air.  Trees are different creatures by night. Thursday morning:   Boy reports, on his looking from the window to survey the likely pattern of the day’s weather, that a tree has fallen across the lane. An elderly damson, I think, on closer inspection, as it has crumbled, not fallen. The wood disintegrates in my fingers, soft as the flat grey air, flaking like pastry. Mix it all up, says my playful imagination, bake a damson pie. In the debris, I find a nest, small enough to d...

Showered, scrubbed, sat, fully dressed, in bed because the house is cold and from here I have a pleasing vista of leafy trees and sheep dots on field squares. Moorland squats under mist. The window has rain freckles. I hear a car rumble on the lane. Mr returns from his town errands, and he has bought a picnic basket in a charity shop. ‘Another bit of clutter,’ he apologises. I look up at my family heirloom stuffed Red Squirrel, and decide I’d better not worry about it. Picnics are fun, even an indoor picnic on a day that rains. It is difficult to pack food in a basket without being mindful of the intention to share and enjoy. I don’t know why I like Squirrel so much though. Probably because he is so odd, he provokes a quizzical mindset, even when I am used to him being there. And he reminds me of this: Once upon a time there was such a place as ‘Mr Potter’s Museum of Curiosities,’ a collection of objects including locally retrieved mummified cats, seventeen kittens drowned and stu...