Today I walked the orchard.
Through the apple and pear trees.
Over the style and I swear I could feel Jackson. I sat on the wooden cross bar and hung my head. The tears behind my eyelids were ready to burst like the buds.
Down the hill, round the stream, and there was the wild garlic I had gone looking for.
Tender green leaves, my fingers still smell from picking a handful by the waters edge. I am about to eat them in a salad.
Back to the cottage and I mowed the lawn. Every daisy went the way of the rest of the cuttings. The lawn looked neat and shapely.
I made Mothers Day breakfast. Herby chippolatas, bacon, airy-scrambled eggs and fresh coffee. I had my bacon and sausage in a crisp, rustic roll.
I gave my mother Jaffa cakes, sunflower seeds to grow and a pot of something or other that looks like an artists palette but is called ‘Penis on A Plate’.
Jim, me and the old girl sat in the garden, he with wine, she with lemonade and me with fruit. The sun caught her cheeks and I took my shoulders off so I could get some sort of colour for Croydon.
I drove my mother back to her home in Herts, then 45 minutes later I was in the flat. My daughter had already arrived with a beautiful bunch of purple and blue anenomes, a bar of chocolate and a card that said ‘I Love My Mummy’. We had a chat, a cuddle and off she went to the pub wth her girlfriend.
I put on the tv and watched a wonderful documentary about BAROQUE paintings, then spoke at great length on the telephone with my delicious nephew, and now I’m preparing for the ‘No 1 Ladies Detective Agency’ whilst eating my raw garlic salad before doing some more writing.
The flat is quiet, but next week is all birthdays, dentists, shows and parties.
Well you’re only 3 score years the once.
Pooh! I must get the smell of garlic off my fingers before I’m 60.