7.52 (up since 7am)
Sunny morning, dew and fog lifting upwards. The pot of mini daffodils that my sister gave me has opened. I actually got sun burnt yesterday when walking to the pike. I happily burnt the face on my skin, I wanted to feel the heat. Naoise freckles came out too. Lovely little splodges of brown.
I can hear footsteps on the floor boards of the bedroom above, best be quick, write something whilst I still have alone space.
The shower is running. Patrick getting up for work. I will have a quiet peaceful day, down to one boy and me. Syd is in Norfolk, perhaps he will fish, thats what he wanted to do. I will have to suffice on imagining his day.
Maybe I will get the Christmas tree planted back in the hole on the allotment. There are a pile of potatoes chitting on the window sill, throwing out shoots, ready to be buried in soil. Need to get back to the digging and the weeding and the watching and the growing. Seedlings to be potted. Spring is busy, must move quickly to work with it.
Have swung the back door open, So I can hear the river and the birds and there is a path of air wafting through the front room, circling around my legs. The stone floor always cold on bare feet.
Still coughing. Need to go back to the GP. Cars passing. Distinctly quieter on the road, the holidays have temporarily paused the flow. Sun and brightness. Naoise snoozing, I will leave him in bed for as long as possible. I have a list of jobs the length of my arm to try and complete in the short time of space between sleep and non- sleep, care work and work work. What is rest ? What is work? Maybe even dreaming is work? Seems to be no distinction. Home becomes work. Home becomes work when there is care work to be done, not just cleaning and domestic work, I mean nurturing, raising, constructive playing work. Need a plan for the day. Don’t want it to be spent watching screens, gazing through time. Need to hold time, cherish it, take the opportunity, let the day unfold, maybe we will play with flour and water and make potions in the back yard, or draw, paint, or swing on the rope on the hill above the canal, something simple, easily achievable, local, no car journey, no seat straps, just a step away.
Listened to the Stone Roses tracks , found myself walking down a corridor in my A Level college. I am wearing jeans and a loose shirt with an autumnal leaf pattern, long hair, canvas shoes. There are two sets of cloak rooms, where two groups of extremely cool and fit boys hang out. Where they play their records and smoke cigarettes. It is their domain, their den. Only those who are part of their gang can enter this masculine space. I slide a glance into the cloak room, catch the eye of the tall boy with blonde floppy hair and ice blue eyes, I melt. Just a glance can fill me with happiness for an entire day and if he catches my eyes and smiles back then the sauntering and the slowing and the looking over has been a success. I won’t be able to concentrate in the human biology lesson, all I will be able to think about is him, my first love.
Beep, beep, beep, beep the oven buzzer sounds.