Tell me why I don’t like Monday’s
I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas, as if whatever it was the pine boughs and the candles and the silver and gilt-ribboned presents and the birch-log fires and the Christmas turkey and the carols at the piano promised never came to pass.
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
The road down glistened with frost, you could see all the stars, the crescent moon. Me and my two friends descended from the isolated farm house on the hill. It had been a night without children or men.
The hairpin bend was treacherous. We opted for progressing through the mud. Sloe gin’s and tonics, fizzy wine, cheese and crackers, our bellies overfull. My friend kept referring to the advice of Bear Grylls, keep your weight forward so that you don’t slip in the snow. I laughed and laughed that I almost wet myself.
I am carrying extra weight. Weight of mince pies and wine and chocolates and yuel log and pudding and home made bread. All this food love. How the food taunts me, how it hates me, how it makes me lumpy and bumpy. How I love its comfort but hate its affect. We talked about the fasting diet, and I imagined lots of miso soup and lots of scoffing. Maybe I will try this diet out. Maybe.
Two flames of candles, box of matches with penguins cuddling, kitchen science kit, blue fleecy hat, kitchen roll, kitchen cloth, germolene tube with end cut open by Naoise, canister of de-icer, roll of sellotape, a torch, bunch of keys, teaspoon, a plate of lego. The fire crackling, splitting, pushing gas through to fire. The train passes behind the house. The cars move readily today. Monday the first day after Christmas, people back at work.
Thick ice on the windscreen of the car.
Spoke to my brother in Spain, he travels to Madrid today, passing through two mountain ranges, he has packed flasks and blankets and food just incase he gets stuck in the snow, its a five hour journey. Madrid all I can think of is sun and jamon jamon and beautiful bakeries and The Prado and art and culture and red.
Patrick arrives back with bread to make sandwiches to take to a trip to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. We will pack flask and blanket and food and take care not to skid the car on the ice. The Longsight gallery is closed due to snow. Snow how it closes down the world. Cold how it screams caution.
Speaking to my brother in Spain, Naoise did his best to disrupt the flow of the conversation, he wrote me a letter of apology.
Mum I am sore Fre dsreBihe Yoo
(Mum I am sorry for disturbing you)
How sweet his messages are.
How sweet my friends messages are.
P won’t be meeting me today: “snowed in, now iced in, at the top of a hill and the local shop ran out of bread 2 day’s ago!…xx
F: “Weather forecast chance of rain 3% but its going to be *cold*!”