Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

A swift time spent outside, today. One chicken must be flurried from under the car, before the short drive to school. Boy takes his folder of photographs, goes to wave the usual laconic 'bye: one odd insect nestled in the passenger window frowns at the cold air, interrupts. We peer at it. It has that waiting to leap feel about it, as crickets do: is a bland khaki colour; sits still as a carving, big eyes boggle either side of its big head. 'It's going to be one be of those days,' I say. I forgot the banks open late, so after placing my car at a vaguely parked angle; the insect staring balefully after me; around the tiny cold town I walk. Too cold. Hot coffee will help. One window seat, one Americano. An extravagance, really. Civilised and privileged. I have money: it needs to be paid to the bank when the doors open. When the coffee cup is empty, I walk to the bank. When my purse is emptied, I walk back to the car. The insect is elsewhere. It could be ...

A fistful of storm in the sky tonight: splinters clouds into pieces. Such an air of drama: slams at my car: an exhilaration, a fright: I am caught up. And there, on the other side of the road, blue lights, flashing. Cars pulled to, hazard lights busy. A glimpse of torchlight, of shone cones in the far ditch. Let the news be good , I am thinking. A bruise and a lesson learnt. (How long now has my crashed friend been in hospital? He is bored, and grumpy, sat brooding over AutoTrader pictures of cars he isn't driving. Sometimes the second chance at life has a long painful labour.) Let the news be good , I repeat, while the wind frets. I tuck my car into the very top of the driveway. Indoors, Dog is sprawling on the sofa; Cat, happy in her basket.

Two types of snowdrops shiver in the slippery breeze: the shy droplets and the belled petals, striped with green. Icy, the breeze slides. Nipped fingers pull the wool of the warm scarf, cosy up fragile flesh. Cold mud, under the tread of the boots, plasticized: tracks that draw the eye to the gate of the field where the old barn squats. To the gate, and pull the squealing bolt and find here, white as winter flora, open sky: wide open sky.

Hedgetrees exude an energy of moving, even frozen in their dance: it goads a passerby to wander further. I've come this far, I could take a stroll in the woods. The top path is shining, licked by rain. All the fallen leaves make soft compost. Trees grip the abrupt edges with roots like dinosaur toes. Where the path is smothered by fallen timbers, there is a new path being worn beneath. Above is rotted limbs and some low badger tracks. I've never trod there, and it's so close. I've come this far. The bracken is black, frost smitten; the prone wood-flesh uncomfortably soft. Only the brambles are green and fresh and drag blood from unwary skin. Where the track runs out is too steep for standing, descent happens as a seated slide. Sometimes the moss here grows bigger than the trees. Three hours pass. Dog and I, mud flecked, drowsy, find the house again. We both seem surprised, to unearth this life outside the woods.

He came in looking pale: he had forgotten his belt: he wouldn't be able to grade without his belt. 'Wait here,' I tell his parents. I walk back into the hall and bow; an observation of courtesy that, at some point, we all perform inadvertently: at a supermarket, a school, a public toilet. 'Excuse me, Mr Paine…' I know. It's a good name. And the right person to ask. Instructor Paine points to a bag of spare belts, and there's the very colour I'm looking for. After a hug of much gratitude, after a courteous bow at the door, I return to the nervous scene, hand over the borrowed item. The drama is quickly resolved and there's nothing unusual about stricken faces just before a grading. I forgot about it. The hall looked brighter than usual, because of the new expensive floor. The new floor didn't have any marks on it to show students where to stand: we set them out in neat rows so our grading examiner can exercise proper scrutiny. T...

Mild rain, the sort that barely damps. Muffled by a coat hood, walk the rough path to the woods. Wide pools of floodwater in the low fields, reflecting sky. Lively birds, fresh storm felled branches and an old shoulder bone is what we meet on the path. January is gone, like a bottle on a tide, holding a rolled up list of wishes. Have more fun, I asked of myself, be open to riches, and don't talk about, do it. Little decisions, they add up. Slide back the coat hood, under the trees, listen to the rain, symphonic, in the open-palm reach of the evergreens.

Not one raindrop slips from the sky. Sunshine cartwheels across the afternoon. One of those days where one makes plans but the lines blur: maybe because the sun is in your eyes, or because your neighbour from the end house has lost her handbag.  It wasn't in the back of the taxi; not the coal shed, not the greenhouse. It wasn't put away with the groceries in the cupboard or the fridge. In the bag is cash, bankcard, passport sized family photos: all the rectangle jigsaw pieces to connect up modern life. It is just reaching that point where the possibility of a handbag dematerialising is a consideration. Maybe, from the corner of the windowsill, behind the edge of the curtain, the bag is actually sniggering at this trick. 'I never leave it there,' my dear neighbour shakes her head, opens her arms. We hug each other, having shared kindness and relief. 'I'm always so careful with my bag!' She shakes her head again and laughs. 'Well, I can't s...