Month: August 2014

Bank Holiday drizzle

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There are those days when rain wraps you in a shawl of languor. Time stops. The only movement the dipping, dripping leaves. The silence is heavy with clock ticks and rain drops. King Solomon is licking his fur and the bell round his neck is tinkling ever so slightly. Emmy is asleep in the piano … Read more

Berries in the hedgerow

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I went to yoga.
7 in the class. A tattooed woman who should know better, a Polish woman with a long plait that is going to be teaching next term, two women who are of my age but without the flabby thighs that I present when wearing shorts. And a couple who look like they have come from a religious sect in Pennsylvania.
My balance leaves a lot to be desired. But I can now get my head on my feet whilst sitting with the soles of said feet together. I know one shouldn’t be competitive in yoga but Godammit I am. With myself at least.
I came out without my phone or wallet so I went straight home. Driving slowly in case I got nicked again by the yellow van that sits snidely in the lay-by just after the pub.
Little Solly is missing Jim. Keeps running round looking for him. And twice I’ve fallen asleep and called for the old git only to realise that he’s four hundred miles away having the time of his life in his birth city.
I whipped off my hot yoga outfit, washed it, hung it over the bath like a student in a bedsit and set off for my vigorous constitutional.

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Juicing in the rain.

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Yoga at 9.30 this morning. I was stiff and tentative haven’t bent over double for a week. Walked for an hour to post two birthday cards. My music is on random – I think they call it, so I was skipping, trotting, marching to everything from Steely Dan to Rachmaninov. The rain stayed off. I … Read more

Moon Gazing

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Three and a half weeks of madness.
From Radio Sussex to house guests from filming promos to voice overs.
I have been staying in the moment so much I can’t remember what has happened before or after.
The ‘oosbind is setting off in a week to go and give of his best in Leeds. In a West Yorkshire Playhouse production of ‘The Crucible’. I’m doing that counting down the days daftness.
I’m dreading him leaving but it only takes a few days and then I’m into the silence of the ‘hams’.
As I write Solly is sniffing round the attic. Trying to get into a closed cupboard. The bed has been made up by the dawter in preparation for the Jew Do next Saturday.

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