Berries in the hedgerow

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.

Having only had juices and soups I thought I would treat myself to pudding, in the form of the abundant blackberries.
The little ones often taste of honey. The big blebby ones are juiceeeee, and the ones that grow near hawthorn are lemony. The ones that grow in the shade are surprisingly sweet but the big pendulous ones that hang in the sunshine are deeeelicious. They have the warmth of the sun in them.
I decided to eat the ones opposite the shiatsu mistresses house.
Round the bend and past a field of lazy sheep. Nibbled on one or two. But by the time I got to the old kissing gate where the woodpecker lives I had eaten handfuls of the little black jewels. Through my field picking and leaving. Some for the birds, some for the mice. By the time I got to the old rocks I had had my fill. I declined the big fat juicy ones down the avenue knowing that, like a child, I would get all gripey. My hands were stained with blackberry juice.
Got home and the lovely parcel delivery boy who looks like my nephew delivered by 5kg box of quinoa. When we have time I make him a coffee and he stands with his long legs out leaning backwards at the sink, lovely.
Then I ran a bath. Decadent bathing in the middle of the day. Had a phone call from a friend and lounged in the water till she hung up.
Tried to read in the bath but kept falling asleep.
Into the car and a trip to the opticians. I got there too early so had a hot chocolate opposite – I owe them money as I didn’t have any cash on me.
‘Where are your lenses?’ said the optician with a very handsome face and Australian accent.
‘I left them at home. I thought you were getting me a new pair.’
‘No’ he said irritated at my ageing flakiness. ‘You were overexcited when you came last time thats why you didn’t listen to me.’ He said. ‘I needed to test them on you.’
If he didn’t look like a smaller Hugh Jackman I may well have decked him.
So home I came. I have another appointment with him tomorrow at 10.50. Ten to eleven. Just before eleven a.m. Three times he reminded me just in case my addled brain had misheard him.
Slow drive home. Listening to the news and the cock ups in the English GCSE birthed by the cock up that is Gove.
Then I had two beetroots from my friends garden, 2 garlic cloves, shaved strong cheddar cheese a drizzle of olive oil. Two apples and two knacker-breads with luscious butter and watched ‘POINTLESS’ as I crunched.
That was/is my supper and jolly good it was too. I was right about the blackberries I ate far too many!!!!!
Solly is asleep on his sweaters which are on the table. Tomorrow I’m making lunch for my 2 stepdaughters and step granddaughter. Then Jim will arrive back from the frozen north to spend bank Holiday Monday with his southern belle.
The yoga studio is shut for ten days , our teacher is away on holiday in the Maldives. So I have found myself a website. A young American yogi who whines.
She stands on her mat on the side of an American mountain and takes you through an hour of yogic bliss. I may fall out of balance, if I do I will land on my carpet, God forbid she slips she’ll be coming down the mountain when she comes.
I called my spiritual teacher, and asked her what I should do with all the horrible news. She said keep chucking light at it. So I urge you all to think about the men of madness and hold them in the light. It may just give us all a break.

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