Back in the day when I lived in Battersea, seems like million years ago now, I used to shop in The Native American emporium on The Kings Road, I bought bits to satisfy my Crancological life style.
I amassed bracelets, beads, turquoise thingumajigs and ODINS JOURNEY, by LARS IMS, the Norse Wisdom cards handbook.
Its been nestled between the box sets of Quentin Tarantino and Marylyn Monroe, keeping its own council. But a few days ago, given my state of mind, I pulled it off the shelf, blew off the dust, and laughed at the names. Norse mythological characters like Frigga, Mimir, Yggdrasil and Ginnungagap.
Then this morning, feeling wretched after an itchy night from my bloomin wasp sting, I pulled a three card spread.
Bolverk - Adversity
Draupnir - Focus.
Gleipnir - Exercise.
Pretty bloody clear to me, I thought.
So I went out into the garden and stood on one leg for two minutes.
Did my Tibetan Five and medidated for nearly and hour.
Got dressed and went out, via the post box to send off a parking ticket, the Bastards, over the road, through the orchard and down the hill to the very heavily laden pear trees. I plucked one thinking they won't miss one pear, screwed it off and munched it as I wandered down the hill to the style.
Sat for a minute chewing the pear and acknowledging that nature really does prescribe art. A murder of crows picking away at the corn stubs, the trees the horizon, the smell of sweet wood. For just a minute I was in a timeless Thomas Hardy chapter painted by Gainsborough.
Didn't pick too many blackberry's, although they really do go well with pears, as most of them are powdery and covered in mildew. Nearly October see.
Marched past the mole hills, happy that my passport arrived this morning and that if all goes well I'll be in the middle of "Fall' when we get to the States.
Past sawn off trees, which always upsets me, and Policemen's helmets, such a lovely flower that bears no resemblance to a 21st century bobbies titfa at all. The only flower that could be called a policeman's helmet now would be one flattened by a Fracking bulldozer.
Through the grass, round the bend and up the hill. 200 hard footsteps. Looking at the ground so that I defy gravity, which the rest of my body would argue.
Sat on a tiny wooden bench in the hedgerow looking again at the golden section created by fields and streams.
Up through a jungle of stinging nettles and into the dark tunnel of roots, acorns, crispy conker shells and a thick layer of drying leaves. Out into the sunlight, and the warm September air, through another style and past the Grange.
'Y' had invited me into tea when I bumped into her outside the opticians, but I thought better of it. Wiser to keep quiet at the moment. Conversating about my life is not safe as I don't know what will dribble out.
Arrived home, hot an sweaty, made some quinoa with vegetables, took two calls from Gods Gift and the Dawter who both wanted advice. Felt useful for ten minutes.
Looked up the films at The Odeon and have decided to treat myself to two movies. They had better be good. The new Richard Curtis and the new Jennifer Aniston. The reviews are good but you can't trust them anymore, written by young folk.
God I do so sound old.
I wonder what the Norsemen will tell me to do tomorrow. Their advice today has totally knackered me.
Tack så mycket
Jeni Barnett tells of her scrumptious time at Good Food Live in her first audiobook! Download NOW from iTunes